


Soothsayer

by Piyo13



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Urban Fantasy, i'm not actually entirely sure how to tag this, there's some mentions of torture-ish things but none of it is graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard Bowman, single father of three and human (and secret soothsayer), needs a job. He applies for a position at Greenwood & Co., one he's sure he won't get—except then he does. Thranduil Oropherion, elven single father and CEO of Greenwood & Co., puts out a job ad that in all honesty can't really be fulfilled. Except then the perfect candidate shows up, and Thranduil hires him without second thought.</p><p>These are the adventures of Bard Bowman, (no-longer-so-secret) soothsayer and personal assistant to Thranduil Oropherion (who is also involved in most of said adventures).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pound the Pavement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Someone who pounds the pavement walks the streets or goes from company to company, usually in search of employment."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying out my hand at a bit of barduil here, lemme know what y'alls think :)

Bard tightened his grip around the steering wheel of his pickup. He was idling in the parking lot, zoning out to the sound of static from the radio, which was only a few years younger than the truck itself. The glowing green-numbered clock on the dashboard changed its minute, the flicker of light catching Bard's eye long enough to jolt him out of his reverie. Right. Job interview. Five minutes.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and killed the ignition. Not like this was his first interview; he'd been jobbing around for several years, part-timing over at The Laketown as well, but then Alfrid had accused Bard of giving away merchandise to the needy (in Bard's defense, The Laketown had been about to throw out everything Bard gave away) and, well—the Master had only ever needed one solid reason to fire him. Truthfully, Bard considered himself lucky he hadn't been sent to jail; not that the Master hadn't tried, but still.

Bard drew another breath, unbuckling his seatbelt.  He stepped out of the pickup, taking care to keep the door as closed as he could, in order to not scratch the neighboring car, which _had_ to be absurdly expensive. In fact, all the cars in the lot were; Bard's truck looked especially pitiful in comparison, as if glue-charms were the only thing holding it together (there were, admittedly, a few; mostly on the inside, though, and no one needed to know about them). He straightened his scruffy tie and tugged his dark grey vest—well, his father's vest, really, and the cut was a bit off on Bard's narrower frame—straight in the reflection of the window before finally heading towards the main doors—a large, decorated affair, full of unnecessary arches and swirls.

Inside Greenwood & Co. was every bit as posh and proper as it looked from the outside. Sweeping pillars led into a high-vaulted ceiling, the upper levels being made, as was the elvish fashion, from living trees grown to shape. It was surprisingly bright inside, given the lack of obvious light source; Bard chalked it up to one of those brightening charms, the kind The Laketown had used to sell. Large black-marble tiles paved the ground floor, and Bard was able to identify at least three security automatons, their bird-like shapes flitting about through the abundance of houseplants, as he made his way to the front desk.

A brown-haired elf greeted him, looking up from her computer without even a twinge of the expected annoyance. Bard suspected he might have gotten too used to Alfrid over the years.

"Good morning, how may I help you?" she asked, her voice bearing the lilting and vaguely British accent of those whose first language was Sindarin.

"Bard Bowman, I'm here for an interview? I called in yesterday asking about the job and was told to come here now…"

The elf nodded, typing quickly as the computer screen flashed. She nodded to herself, turning back to Bard with a smile.

"Please come through the door to your right, I'll take you back to Mr. Oropherion, he requested to interview you personally."

Wondering what the hell _that_ was supposed to mean, Bard did as instructed. Behind the door was a long hallway, grown out of lightly colored wood that almost glowed. The ceiling here, Bard noted, had an equally long branch of ivy flowing along it, with soft lights intermittently peeking out from between the leaves. _Clever design._

The elf joined him, motioning for him to follow, and then proceeded on taking Bard along for the most confusing navigation of a series of corridors he'd ever seen—and that was saying something, because Bard had been in the backrooms of The Laketown. They passed several other elves along the way, all of whom gave Bard at least one look, if not more. Which was fine, Bard was used to looks, had been since Tilda'd been born, except that these weren't looks of pity or consternation, but merely curiosity.

His guide motioned him into an elevator, taking up the rear and following him in. She pressed one of the ornate buttons decorated with indecipherable Elvish script, though by its position Bard guessed they were headed up to the seventh floor. The silence continued as the elevator began to move.

"Any reason practically everyone here was staring at me?" Bard eventually asked.

"Not many humans see the inside of Mirkwood," she replied. "Very few have the necessary qualifications for the job, and there's not many openings besides."

Bard regarded her evenly. "I see," he said, ignoring the part of him that screamed _lie_ in reference to the qualifications. She smiled courteously in return, before returning to look directly in front of her. Bard imitated her pose, standing with his hands folded behind his back, resting just above his hips.

Finally, the elevator came to a smooth halt, and the doors opened to reveal another long, vine-traced hallway. It was significantly emptier than the ground floor had been. The secretary walked Bard down to a door near the end, then knocked twice before sticking her head in and speaking in rapid Sindarin. The answering voice was deep and smooth, and most definitely speaking a lie. Bard wondered what it could be; most likely something along the lines of 'yes I'm totally ready to interview the human'.

The secretary turned back to him, opening the door wider for him to pass through. "Mr. Oropherion will see you now," she said with a smile. Bard nodded and smiled back as he stepped primly through the door. The walls of the room were all obscured by various plants, but the centerpiece was a large wooden desk that seemed to grow directly from the floor (it probably did). Sitting behind the desk was another elf.

Mr. Oropherion, Bard thought, was quite the beautiful person. However, Mr. Oropherion was also covered by the glowing halo—curiously concentrated on his left side, though—that Bard had learned at a young age to pair with illusions, and so Bard was left wondering what part of the beauty was natural and what part was magic-induced. In either case, the elf cut quite the dashing figure as he stood up and extended a hand towards Bard, his silver-grey suit impeccably tailored and contrasting perfectly with the deep red of his shirt. Bard self-consciously smoothed the hem of his vest with one hand, taking the elf's with the other.

"Thranduil Oropherion, CEO of Greenwood & Co.," the elf said, his voice less Sindarin-accented than his secretary's.

"Bard Bowman, uh, prospective employee," Bard returned, shaking Mr. Oropherion's hand firmly before letting go.

"Please, be seated," Mr. Oropherion said with a faintly amused smile, motioning to the chair. Bard did so, noting with a small intake of breath that the chair was more comfortable than his own couch at home. On the other side of the desk, Mr. Oropherion sat down as well, leaning back in his chair and crossing one ankle over his knee, hands steepled.  "So, Mr. Bowman, care to tell me why you applied to this job in particular?"

Bar resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow and answer with 'because I need money'. Instead, he took a second to consider his answer before speaking. "I believe I have the necessary skill set, sir."

Mr. Oropherion had no compunctions about raising his eyebrow, it seemed. "Really? And yet, you bring no materials with you with which to create truth-detecting spells or truth-speaking serums, and—"

Bard cleared his throat a little bit, interrupting Mr. Oropherion's speech. The latter seemed somewhat shocked, but Bard pressed on. "With all due respect, I don't need anything if all you need are truth-detection skills. I'm, ah, I'm a soothsayer. Of the lie-detecting variety, not the seeing-the-future variety."

Once he was finished, Bard shifted nervously in his seat, fiddling with the hem of his vest again. His neighborhood was mostly non-magical, sometimes downright _anti_ -magical, and it didn't help that abilities such as Bard's weren't often… praised. He'd never told the Master about them—if the man knew how much money he could have made if Bard had pointed out when sellers were lying about their minimum profit margins, he'd probably break something. Bard, most likely. But Greenwood & Co. had placed an ad specifically asking for truth-detection, and while they were almost certainly looking for a wizard or a potioneer to make charms or spells, Bard was also down a job and he figured it wouldn't hurt to apply. He hadn't really thought he'd get an interview, given that he hadn't outright stated his abilities when he'd called in, but here he was.

At least Mr. Oropherion looked impressed. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. "Truly?" Bard nodded. "Can you demonstrate this?"

Ah, this was the hardest part. "Well… if someone lies to me, or says a lie around me, I can tell you what it was that was a lie. I can't tell you what the truth would be, though. Just what's a lie. And… I can sense illusionary and concealment magic," Bard added, nodding his head at Mr. Oropherion slightly. The elf seemed rather taken aback, his mouth just slightly open.

"Can you tell what—ah…" Mr. Oropherion gestured stiffly to his face, but it took Bard a few moment of confusion before he realized what he was being asked.

"Oh! No, no, I can't see under the illusion, I can just tell that there _is_ one. It's like with spoken lies. I can tell if someone's lying, but not what the truth would be instead of the lie."

Mr. Oropherion relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping and the shocked expression melting away. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he re-opened them, his composure was back, and he looked at Bard with the barest hint of a smile. "So if I were to tell you that my brother—"

"Lie," Bard said, the familiar heaviness of the words sinking into his stomach telling him all he needed to know.

Mr. Oropherion smirked. "And if I said Greenwood & Co. harbors no ill will towards Durin and Sons?" Bard paused, reflecting over the words. They weren't like the word brother, not sinking, but certainly not rising like truth speech did, either…

"I think… it's not a lie, but if you changed the wording it would be," Bard said cautiously. It was generally hit or miss when sentences stayed on an even path—sometimes people were skirting a lie by saying things that were _technically_ true, or else they were unwittingly speaking in such a manner that it sounded like a lie. Bard usually gave people the benefit of the doubt, but that didn't seem to be what Mr. Oropherion was looking for. And Bard needed the job; four mouths didn't feed themselves on nothing.

Mr. Oropherion nodded slowly. "And if I told you that my son wants a horse for his birthday?"

"Truth," Bard replied, and the elf gave one last nod before pulling open a drawing and rifling through it.

"There we go," he said, taking a small stack of papers and sliding it across to Bard. "You're hired. Please fill out all these forms here. It's all the standard topics, I believe. We'll also need to run a background check, so stop back by the front desk and ask for Tauriel. Also, tell her your availability while you're at it."

Blinking rapidly, Bard took the papers. Mr. Oropherion smirked again, though this time he looked every bit the dangerous, slightly magical being that he was. He stood, and Bard imitated him.

"Welcome to Greenwood, Mr. Bowman," he said, extending a hand to shake Bard's once again.

"I—uh, that is, thank you very much, Mr. Oropherion," Bard stammered out, still processing what had just happened. The elf moved around the desk, his long steps seeming to glide, and held the door open for Bard.

Bard exited with a muttered 'goodbyeandthankyouagain', and the door clicked shut behind him. It was only then that he noticed the writing on the top of the packet of papers.

 _Documents for: PERSONAL ASSISTANT_ was written across the top in large enough letter that Bard honestly had no idea how he'd missed them. He turned back to stare at the closed door for a bit.

_What just happened…?_


	2. Sign on Dotted Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you sign on the dotted line, you formally give your consent to something by signing an official document."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say, _jesus dicking CHRIST_ you people are insane! (In the best way, of course). There was an overwhelmingly positive response to chapter one, I was completely blown away (and spent basically the next like, five days grinning to myself at random points in time). So yes, thank you!!! So much!!!
> 
> And enjoy chapter 2 :)

Bard stared a few seconds longer at the papers, searching his memory. He hadn't... he hadn't  _applied_  for a PA job, had he? He was certain that it had just read 'seeking: someone who can detect lies', or something of the sort... Not for personal assistant. _Definitely_ not for personal assistant to the CEO of Greenwood & Co.

He shook his head a little, trying in vain to clear it, and followed the single hallway back to the elevator. He pressed the lower of the two buttons on the wall and waited as the doors slid open with barely a whisper. Once inside, he stared blankly at the Elvish markings on the floor buttons before his brain re-engaged, and he hit the first one. Belatedly, he noticed it had a small star engraved into the wood next to it. At least the elves followed the typical symbols of the world, if not the lingua franca.

He reached the ground floor, and stumbled across another problem: following the secretary as he'd been, he hadn't bothered to commit to memory all the turns and corridors they'd walked down.

"Wonderful," he muttered. Sighing, he struck out to the left, resolved to ask the first elf he saw for directions. Luckily, it wasn't too long before he saw one—they were slim, with dark hair and darker eyebrows, and Bard had no idea how to address them. The elf appeared to have noticed him staring, however, and titled their head at him.

"You seem lost," they said. Bard snorted.

"You'd be correct. Any chance you could point me towards the front desk? Or to a certain…" Bard wracked his brains for the name Mr. Oropherion had spoken. "Tauriel, I believe?"

The elf's eyebrows flew up. "You seek Tauriel?" they asked, tone and expression coming off as a mix between grudgingly respectful and amusedly surprised.

"I think so, yes," Bard replied, apprehensive.

The elf hummed. "Follow me, then, I was just on my way to her office," they said, and turned with a flourish. Their distinctly elven-styled clothes—so different from what the secretary or even Mr. Oropherion had worn—twirled with them, the heavy fabric cutting a pretty arc through the air. Bard couldn't help but think that the motion had been done solely for his benefit.

The elf led Bard through the veritable maze, and though Bard tried to keep track of where they were going, he was soon completely lost. Greenwood had looked large from the outside, but this was ridiculous. Three flights of stairs and myriad turns later, the elf stopped in front of a large door, and rapped twice.

"Come in," said a voice from the other side. The elf nodded to Bard as they opened the door, motioning him through.

The room was rather large and completely different from the soft-colored wood and flowing vines of the hallways. Two of the walls were simply large screens, upon which the feeds of various security automatons were visible. The third wall was a large window that overlooked the parking lot—Bard could see his beat-up truck standing out in stark comparison to the other cars—though the panes of glass (if they even _were_ glass, at that) appeared held in place by living wood adorned with small buds. In the center there were four desks, also rising out of the floor like Mr. Oropherion's, though the wood was darker and less gracefully curved. All in all, Bard got the impression that whomever worked here was much less concerned with outward appearances than Mr. Oropherion.

A side door opened from behind the screens, and an elf with light red-brown hair stepped in, wearing traditional clothes and fiddling some kind of electronic device.

"Tauriel, this man has been sent to see you," the dark-haired elf said from directly behind Bard. Bard tried not to flinch—he hadn't heard the elf move that close at all. The red-haired elf—Tauriel—looked up in surprise. Her eyes locked with Bard's, and he had the oddest sense of being scanned.

"I see. Thank you, Elros," she said, not breaking eye contact with Bard.

"Of course," Elros said. Bard heard the rustle of fabric this time as Elros began to move. Bard took it as a chance to flick his eyes away from Tauriel's. Elros walked over to one of the desks, moving some papers and tablets around, but Tauriel continued to stare at Bard. He fidgeted with the papers still clutched in his hand. Finally, she turned to Elros.

"Here, see if you can get this to work again. Took a hit from a falling apple on the grounds," she said, passing over the electronic device. Her words were somewhat stilted, as if she weren't used to speaking Westron. Elros lifted it gingerly, allowing Bard to catch a flash of metal wings. An automaton, then.

"An apple? Really?"

Tauriel let out a soft exhalation. "You're telling me. Something got knocked in there, I can't figure it out."

Elros nodded. "I'll do my best, _hest_ ," they said, a flicker of amusement readable in their face. Tauriel returned the look, then went back to Bard.

"My apologies, I didn't properly introduce myself. Tauriel Talatheionë, at your service," she said, extending a hand. The stiffness of her Westron had faded completely, and with a flash of insight Bard realized it had only sounded stiff because she'd forced herself to speak Westron with Elros. Bard smiled at her as he shook her hand.

"Bard Bowman, at yours."

"Come then, I do believe there are better seats for guests in the next room over," she said, leading the way. She pushed a point on one of the screens, and it swung out, revealing the door she'd come in through. Bard followed her inside.

The room was set up more like a conference room—there was a large table in the middle, surrounded by many chairs, and a large blank screen on one wall. The window was likewise large. Half the table was taken over with various small tools ranging from simple screwdrivers to more complex magic-damping ones, the kind used to work on devices with magical cores so that the magic didn't hurt you. Bard raised an eyebrow lightly at them.

"Ah, my apologies for the mess, I was trying to fix the automaton," Tauriel explained, taking a seat at the side without the tools and motioning for Bard to do the same.

"No need to apologize," Bard said. "I was merely impressed by the quality of the tools."

"One of the many perks of working for Greenwood; Thrand- Mr. Oropherion accepts only the finest caliber tools in his company. Which brings us to you, Mr. Bowman. Elros said you were looking for me, and only Mr. Oropherion gives out my name." She had both her hands on the table, fingers interlaced, and was looking at Bard with an evenness that was unsettling.

"Yes, he told me to find you. For a background check, and to give you my availability." Bard set the papers on the table between them. Tauriel peered over at them, and then looked back up at Bard. He would almost have called her expression impressed.

"Background check, indeed." She reached into one of the folds of her clothes, and pulled out a small black scroll, which she unrolled and laid flat on the table. She pressed her palm to it, and the scroll lit up with blue light. _Some kind of computer, then_. "Your name is spelled like it sounds?" she said, pulling up something or another on the screen.

Bard nodded. "My birthday's August 27th, 2898," he said, anticipating her next question. Now it was Tauriel's turn to nod.

"While I get through this search, you can go ahead and fill out the forms, if you like," she said, reaching to the cluttered end of the table and pulling out a pen. Bard accepted the pen, and began to flip through the pages. It was all pretty standard stuff, things he'd filled out a million times before: name (Bard Bowman, no middle initial), date-of-birth (27-08-2898), current address (1217 E. Esgaroth Ct., Dale, 13122-013)… Bard continued filling in all the necessary information, only looking up when Tauriel exclaimed softly.

"Hm?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, flustered. "I just hadn't realized you had children."

"Ah. Yes, three," Bard replied. Tauriel looked at him like she wanted to say more, but then gave a shake of her head and returned to the scroll-tablet. Bard shrugged it off. It was a known fact that elves were not as fertile as humans. In any case…

The next few pages went by quickly, most asking if Bard had any medical history worth noting or if he had any particular reaction to various kinds of magic. Easily striking through the no on everything except allergies (silver, but it was mild), Bard came to the last page. There were just three blanks: signature for confidentiality, signature to accept the work contract as a whole, and desired wage.

"Ah, Tauri- Ms Talathelionë?"

"Just Tauriel, please. You have a question?"

"Yes. For wage…?"

"Oh! Mr. Oropherion didn't mention any numbers to you?" Bard shook his head, and Tauriel smiled. "Then you're free to put down whatever you like."

Bard stared. "I," he began, then stopped. Tauriel looked at him expectantly. "I wouldn't even know where to start," he confessed.

Tauriel hummed. "The current minimum wage is ten dollars, isn't it? In that case, you've got three additional mouths to feed—mark down forty. If Thranduil has a problem with it he can talk to me, though I doubt he will, especially once he knows about the children." Tauriel's words sang true, and she had her mouth set in a firm line and a determined look in her eye that Bard didn't much fancy going up against.

He quietly marked down a thirty on the page, though even that felt like too much. He was used to scraping by with two jobs that collectively paid less than that… he shook his head. Time enough to consider that later. He quickly skimmed the confidentiality clause, then signed his name both there and on the final, marginally larger line. Tauriel had evidently also finished, because as soon as he put down the pen she gathered up all the papers and straightened them.

"Now, I can't promise you your hours will always be regular, given the nature of the job—yes?"

"I just wanted to make sure… I didn't call in for any personal assistant job. I called in about the truth-seeing ad."

Tauriel shrugged. "I don't claim to know everything Mr. Oropherion thinks, but most likely he was looking to narrow the pool of applicants." Her words stayed flat, allowing Bard no interpretive hints. "It worked, it would seem." She smiled kindly at him. "As I was saying, I can't guarantee your hours will be constant, however, if you give me your availability, we will make sure to keep your work limited to those hours." Her words were still flat; she'd _try_ to keep him to the hours he listed, but Mr. Oropherion was another matter, was what Bard drew away from it.

"Right. The kids go to school at nine, so not before then. Wednesdays Sigrid has violin practice from five thirty to six thirty, so around then I'm not available… and while I'd prefer to be home for dinner on any given day, Sigrid's old enough to take care of the other two if necessary."

"I'll put you down for preferring nine to four, with evenings open—except Wednesdays—but disfavored. Does that sound acceptable?"

Bard nodded. "Sounds more than acceptable, really," he said with a tentative smile. Tauriel quirked her lips up at him.

"We'll give you a call later tonight with what time you should be here tomorrow, then," she said, standing up.

Bard imitated her. "Sounds good." They shook hands again, and Tauriel gave Bard a business card, which he slipped into his pocket.

"I'll have Elros escort you back to the lobby. Greenwood can get a little confusing the first few times." Tauriel's voice fell flat again, and Bard was left wondering what he wasn't being told as Elros and Tauriel held a quick conversation in Sindarin, upon which Elros gave Tauriel the damaged automaton and proceeded to lead Bard back to the front desk. Bard shook hands goodbye, said goodbye to the secretary as well, and walked back to his car.

He sat in the front seat for a few seconds, simply staring out the windshield at Greenwood & Co., before he started the ignition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Hest_ means 'Captain' in Sindarin, according to the internet. All the security detail call Tauriel that, despite her not actually being a captain in this AU ^^  
>  2\. I'm using the year-dates from the LOTR Wikia, and a random date generator for the birthday.  
> 3\. And American money ~~because it's easier~~  
>  4\. Hm, elaboration on Tauriel's name? She's been given no last name that I could find, and since I've seen the whole sons-take-the-father's-name thing (i.e, Oropherion, Thranduilion) I figured why not and did the same for Tauriel (except that she's female, so she'd take her mother's name? + gender-change in the suffix, so Talathelionë...). Quick disclaimer at this point that I know nothing about Sindarin/Silvan/literally anything, I'm just pulling it out of my ass as I write ^^;;


	3. Opening Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If something opens doors, it provides opportunities or possibilities for the future."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, okay, this is ridiculous. I love you all so much. The amount of feedback and praise I've gotten over this fic is _ridiculous_ and I just?? [muffled happy sobbing in the background] Thank you sooo muuuuch :')
> 
> Okay, okay, just take the chapter--I promise Thranduil will actually _be_ in the next one! And things will be more interesting... ~~Somehow I seem to always end up writing ridiculously slow-burn fics, why this.~~

It took Bard about twenty-five minutes to make the drive home. Ground traffic wasn't too bad, but it felt as though he'd hit every red light possible. At least, thank the Valar, he didn't fly. The air-lanes were crowded and Bard thought he'd seen at least one shredded magic carpet, hanging limply off a tree. He rather hoped its driver was in a slightly better state.

Three stoplights later, he finally pulled into the parking garage, the scanner beeping quietly as it read his license plate and lifted the striped barrier. Bard circled around, winding up the layers, until he reached the sixth, where he parked as close to the elevator as he could get his boat of a truck. Typically he left at least one parking space between him and anyone else—no use risking anyone else's paint job. His was already so far gone is probably would only have been an improvement.

Bard stepped out of the car, locking the door and giving the hood a nice pat. The Barge put up with a lot. Tucking his hands into his pant pockets, Bard walked over to the elevator shaft. He ignored the elevator, instead heading for the badly-disguised secret door that led directly into the 6th floor apartment landing. It opened to Bard's touch, the usual aftershock of magical identification making his fingers tingle.

Their apartment was the last one on the floor, across the full length of the landing and right next to the apartment building elevators. More than once Bard had been woken up in the middle of the night by one of his neighbors (generally Percy, although exceptions could be found) stumbling onto the landing, drunk. His kids never complained, though, so maybe it was just Bard.

Bard pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. No magic within the complex itself; the magic locks had been deemed too expensive to buy and maintain, and Bard's economic standing wasn't such that he could afford to buy his own, had he even had the mind to. Not that he had ever seen too much a problem with steel locks, anyways. Even _if_ someone were to break in, there wasn't much of value within the apartment (and if they tried to hurt Bard's children, well—his last name wasn’t 'Bowman' for nothing).

The foyer was small, just a plastic-tiled place to take off one's shoes, really. It opened directly into the small living room, and off to the side was a counter that separated living room from kitchen. Bard walked in, towards the short hallway that led to all the bedrooms. Sigrid and Tilda shared, but Bain's room was the smallest. Bard's room had probably been designed with 'office space' in mind, but he hadn't minded. His bed was small, and his desk slotted nicely into the remaining space. Against the opposing wall sat the hastily-put-together wardrobe.

Bard wasted no time pulling off the horrendously stuffy formal clothes, begrudgingly hanging the vest up properly so it wouldn't crease—he'd need to wear it tomorrow, after all. He changed into relaxed jeans, t-shirt, and a light jacket. He checked his phone for the time. 12:30; that meant still another three hours, at least, until Tilda came home. Perfect. 

He reached to the back of his wardrobe and pulled an unstrung longbow, as well as a quiver of light arrows. He ran his fingers over the string, making sure it was still suitably greased. The six threads that comprised the string rolled and clung lightly to one another, and Bard deemed it good. He checked the quiver over as well, pulling out the two arrows whose fletching had come off but he hadn't had the time to fix. He made sure his archery glove was still inside the quiver, then hooked it through one of his belt loops. He grabbed his bow and, pausing only to put on some worn-down boots, left the apartment again. Both him and his quiver were a usual sight in the elevators, especially since he'd been laid off, and the only person he saw—Helga—had wished him an amiable hello as he made his way outside.

The neighborhood of Esgaroth Ct bordered one of the largest parks in all of Dale. Bard's apartment complex happened to be right across the street. Most people found it at the very least intimidating, as the Park Service of Dale had stopped trying to keep it any semblance of tame over the last decade, but Bard enjoyed the overgrown look and had often taken his kids there, when they were younger. Nowadays, Bard mostly just used the park to burn off steam and keep in practice with his longbow.

He marched along one of the dirt paths, one hand placed on his quiver to keep the arrows from snagging on any bushes. After a good five minutes, he reached his usual clearing. On the end he was standing, a log had been sawed to resemble a bench, and the path wound on farther, past the clearing and back into the woods. On the other end, various targets had been assembled over the course of the years, and now five sturdy, dry-leaf-packed bull's-eyes watched Bard intently.

Bard quickly strung his bow, giving it a perfunctory pull to straighten out the string. Then he fished inside his quiver, donning his archer's glove, and testing that as well. With a breath, he stepped up to the small patch of dirt he used as a base. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, laying it across the small wire arrow rest.

He took another breath, and drew back the string until his fingers brushed his cheek. Exhaling, he focused on the target. Inhaling this time, he minutely adjusted the height of his bow hand. He let slip the string.

A heartbeat later, the arrow slammed into the target with a dull thud, directly in the middle. Bard breathed out, and another arrow found its way onto the rest before he'd consciously processed his hands moving. He chose a different target, aimed, fired, and breathed.

Draw, aim, fire, breathe.

The pattern continued until he was out of arrows; then he simply slung his bow over his shoulders, and walked from target to target, collecting his arrows along the way. He returned to his base, and the process began again.

Bard only stopped shooting once his arms began to ache. Seventy pounds though his draw weight was, it still took him nearly two hours to reach that point. Walking through the targets one last time, Bard rolled his shoulders and swung his arms around a bit, loosening them up. Once his arrows were all safely back in the quiver, Bard unstrung his bow, and trekked back to his apartment.

He put his bow and quiver away, then took a quick shower. He still had half an hour left until Tilda returned, so he set about to preparing a snack for her. Was Sigrid coming home early today, too? Bain had soccer practice, though, that much Bard was sure of.

He pulled out flour, sugar, butter, and eggs, determined to make them a treat, and wondered briefly how much he should make, before shrugging. _I just signed a contract for a thirty-dollars-an-hour job. A full batch of cookies it is_ , he thought, and began to measure out his ingredients.

By the time Tilda ran through the front door, pausing only long enough to slip out of her shoes, the cookies were in the last two minutes of baking.

"Da! Did you make _cookies?_ " she said, running up to him for a hug. Grinning at her, Bard leaned down and picked her up, giving her a kiss on her cheek.

"Yes I did, and they're going to be ready in another minute," he said, ignoring her protests that 'I'm _eleven_ , Da, you can't pick me up anymore!'.

"Daaaa, put me down! I'm still wearing my backpack!"

Bard laughed, giving Tilda another kiss and making sure his beard tickled her enough to make her giggle. "Alright, alright, go put your backpack away, princess. And bring your homework back out here with you!"

"Yes, Da," she said as she disappeared into her room. Bard turned back to the stove just in time for the timer to sound. Quickly shutting both timer and oven off, he grabbed his thickest potholders and pulled out the cookie trays, setting them on top of the stove to cool. He poked at one of the cookies with a spatula, glad to discover that they were lightly browned, but still with a touch of chewiness that he knew Tilda loved.

The front door clicked as Bard was sliding the cookies off the tray and onto a plate. "Hello?" he called.

"Oh, hi, Da! Did you make _cookies?_ " Sigrid ducked into view. Bard grimaced.

"Your sister said the same thing… is it really that surprising?"

"A little," Sigrid smiled. _Lie_. "Does this mean the interview went okay?"

"Well, if you must know, I got the job…"

"Really?!"

"Alright, alright, tone down the shock there, geez, you'd think I wasn't good for anything…"

"Ugh, you know that’s not what I meant…" Sigrid said, rolling her eyes exasperatedly.

"Of course. But yeah, I got the job—thirty an hour," Bard added, grinning at Sigrid's face.

"Wait, you're serious?"

"Mmhm. And I'm pretty sure it's full time, too," he said. Sigrid ran around the counter and gave him a hug. Carefully, Bard set down his plate of cookies and returned the embrace.

"That's great, Da."

"Yup. So please, don't worry about applying to more expensive colleges, okay? Things will work out." Sigrid searched his face for a second, then sighed and nodded.

"Okay. Thanks." Her voice fell flat, and Bard made a mental note to follow up on that later.

"Mm. Cookie?"

Sigrid finally let go of Bard, and took a cookie with a smile. Her eyes widened appreciatively. "Da this is… really good, wow."

"What's with _that_ tone, now? Did you think I couldn't bake?" Bard said, poking Sigrid in the ribs. She giggled.

"No, no, it's just _way_ better than—"

"Than?"

"—than the last time we had cookies," Sigrid finished hastily, grabbing two more off the plate before leaving the kitchen. Bard smiled, recalling last time. Bain had been in charge of that, and the half of the cookies that weren't charcoal had been far too heavy on the baking powder.

"Da! Can I have cookies now?" Tilda said, skidding to a stop in the kitchen, a folder full of homework clutched in her hand. Bard held out the plate, and Tilda took it, carrying it out to the dining table that occupied a corner of the living room.

"Do you want some milk?" Bard asked.

"Yes!"

"Me, too, please!" Sigrid yelled from her room. Bard dutifully prepared three glasses, balancing them carefully over to the table.

"The cookies are good," Tilda said, crumbs dribbling down her chin as she stuffed an entire cookie into her mouth. Bard ruffled her hair.

"I'm glad."

 

Dinner that night was a simple affair, just some cooked fish and rice. But it was good, and Bard outlined his new work plan to the three now-sated and somewhat more willing to listen children.

"Alright, so I'll still be here every morning, but after about nine I'll be gone, and I won't be back 'til four or so. I think the lady who was talking to me said I might be asked to show up some evenings, but don't worry, Sigrid, I made sure to tell them I wouldn't be available Wednesday evenings, so you can still take the car." Bard look around at the waiting faces. "Any questions?" No one answered, unless baleful glares counted as an answer. "Alright then, off with you. I'll take care of cleaning up."

His children scattered, Bain and Tilda to their respective rooms and Sigrid to the couch with a textbook and a packet of homework. Bard saved the extra fish in a Tupperware for later in the week, and then made quick work of the dishes. He was just drying off his hands when his phone, perched on the countertop, rang.

Bard hastily finished drying his hands, then flipped the phone open.

"Bard Bowman speaking, hello?"

 _"Hello, Mr. Bowman. This is Galion, calling for Mr. Oropherion."_ Even over the phone, Bard could tell that this Galion's words were true.

"Ah, hello," Bard replied.

_"Yes, now I'm calling to inform you that your presence is expected at the Greenwood offices tomorrow morning at 9:30, as indicated by your availability scheduling."_

"Alright."

_"Mr. Oropherion also wanted me to inform you that tomorrow will mostly entail being properly shown around Greenwood premises, and that he expects you to dress in a business formal manner."_

"Yes, okay…"

 _"That will be all. Have a good night, Mr. Bowman._ " The line went dead before Bard could reply in kind. Bard looked up and met Sigrid's eyes. She raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged.

"They want me in at nine tomorrow, and looking snazzy, I guess."

Sigrid snorted softly. "Sure, Da."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i also do archery, so i feel soothsayer!bard so much on this ^^;; his draw weight is fully double and then some of mine, though...  
> 2\. no idea if there's official ages on any of the bardlings yet or what, so for the sake of this fic Tilda is 11, Bain is 15, and Sigrid's 18


	4. Come Up in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"A person who has come up in the world is richer than before and has a higher social status."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the update's a few days late this week; life kinda came up and stabbed me in the back while I wasn't looking :/ But as always, your comments and kudos and general support make everything that much better, so profuse thanks once again <3
> 
> Anyways, please, enjoy! :D

Bard woke before his alarm the next morning, an idle nervousness having settled in his stomach overnight. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as his fingers caught on knots. The shower was already running; so Sigrid was already awake. Bard lay in bed for a few more minutes before convincing his body to move. He walked the few feet to the wardrobe and opened the door, using the small mirror stuck to the inside to take his bedhead to more acceptable levels.

He made his way to the kitchen as the shower stopped running, and set about preparing breakfast (which consisted only of setting bowls, spoons, milk, and cereal out on the table). Sigrid wandered out, her hair still damp.

"Morning," she muttered, plunking down in her seat. Without an attached 'good', her words sang true. 7:45 was, indeed, morning. A sight too early for them both, perhaps, but they would manage.

"Morning to you, too," Bard said, putting the coffee on the stove. Bard then went to wake Bain and Tilda—the former by opening the blinds so the light shone directly into his face, and the latter with a soft shake and a 'time to get up, princess'. Once he was sure they were both awake and not merely faking it, he went back to the kitchen, turning the heat off under the coffee and serving Sigrid a healthy portion of the stuff. She looked at him as gratefully as she could muster before noon.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he said. Soon enough the other two trudged out, and Bard took advantage of all three being occupied with breakfast in order to take the bathroom for himself. As soon as he was done, his children all ran back to brush their teeth and put the finishing touches on their hair. Bard took care of the cleaning in the meantime, downing the remainder of the coffee in the process. The three ran out the door with shouted goodbyes minutes later, to catch their respective buses.

Bard was left with exactly half an hour before he had to leave, and made the best use of his time that he could, trying to make himself presentable.

"Business formal, business formal, what does that even _mean,_ " he grumbled. The way Mr. Oropherion had been dressed yesterday flashed across his mind, and Bard stifled a laugh. If Mr. Oropherion expected Bard to come dressed with that level of finery, Bard might as well quit now. He barely owned three formal shirts, let alone a tailored suit.

He smoothed down a black tie over a dark blue-green dress shirt that he vaguely hoped was a flattering shade (Tilda had called it his 'ocean shirt' once, that was a good sign, right?). He double-checked that his pants weren't wrinkled, then pulled his hair back into a half-ponytail that Sigrid assured him was extremely fetching and that he, as a consequence, always wore when going anywhere that required any form of decorum. Then again, the time in question that Sigrid had made the comment was because had been running late for a dinner-date that Sigrid herself had set him up on… Bard shook his head. That had been a disaster for everyone _but_ the hair.

After a few more seconds of fidgeting, Bard called it good and left.

The Barge groaned as he started engine, and Bard patted the dashboard. "I know, I know," he said, cranking into reverse and backing out of his parking spot. He pulled into the parking lot of Greenwood & Co. about thirty minutes later, before realizing he had no idea if parking was assigned or not. Biting his thumb absently, he circled the parking lot once before deciding he'd rather use visitor parking than be late.

Bard stepped out of his car, once again taking careful pains not to hit the neighboring, significantly prettier cars. He sighed at his reflection—still scruffy. He always only looked only scruffy at best, no matter how hard he tried. Hopefully Mr. Oropherion needed his skills more than he needed a well-kempt PA.

Bard huffed, banishing the worried 'what ifs' of new jobs and firings from his mind, and walked towards Greenwood. The lobby didn't strike Bard as any less grandiose than yesterday. This time, however, an elf was waiting for him before he got to the front desk, a sleek tablet tucked neatly under their arm. The elf strode quickly toward him despite the way their pencil skirt restricted limb movements, and once she was close enough, Bard was able to recognize the secretary from yesterday.

"Hello, Mr. Bowman," she said as she neared. "Please forgive me for leaving you yesterday, I did not believe the interview would go so quickly. I don't believe we were properly acquaintanced; my name is Mileth." She extended a hand, and Bard shook it.

"And I'm just Bard, please," Bard said with a smile. Mileth returned it, then pulled out her tablet.

"As it is your first day, I have instructions to give you your ID, register your magical signature with the building, and issue you a company car. Then I'll take you to Mr. Oropherion, and he will take care of your wardrobe and details on your role in the company. That's acceptable?"

"Um, yes?—wait, no, company car? _Wardrobe?_ " Not a lie, but there had to be some mistake, there was probably another Mr. Bowman somewhere, she'd just mistakenly confused the two—

Mileth furrowed her eyebrows in an expression Bard didn't quite know how to interpret. "Yes. Greenwood, as I'm sure you are well aware, is both a green energy magnate as well as owner of several lines of name-brand clothing. You will have the choice between ground- or air-car, but both options are Rohan-make and the most energy efficient money can buy. As for the clothes, Mr. Oropherion would like to make sure any public appearances by you are done while wearing Greenwood-owned lines.  You… _were_ aware of this, correct?"

Bard felt faint. "Right. Is that coming out of my first paycheck? Just out of curiosity."

A security automaton flitted by, and Bard wondered absently if Tauriel and Elros had managed to fix their broken one. Mileth looked, if possible, even more concerned. "No?" she said, in a tone that clearly stated she thought the answer to be obvious.

Still nothing but the truth in her words. "Right, right… let's just… get started then, why don't we?" Bard said. He was going to be seeing Mr. Oropherion later anyways, he could ask him directly where the catch was. Mileth seemed relieved to get back onto familiar territory, and nodded.

"Please follow me," she said, and Bard got the strongest sense of déjà vu as he followed her through the door to the right of the front desk and into the maze beyond. Elves were still moving about in the corridors as they had the day before, but less of them stopped to give Bard more than a cursory glance. It certainly felt as though he had already been accepted, and subsequently ignored, by them already. They took a staircase and a few more turns, and suddenly, seeing a familiar door, Bard realized where they were.

"Oh, are we heading to security?"

Mileth smiled. "Yes, Tauriel is the only one with clearance high enough to get the building used to your magical signature." Flat words, but Bard figured Mr. Oropherion was probably the exception to Tauriel's standing—which in and of itself surprised him a little; her demeanor wasn't one he'd thought senior company members would take. Then again, his experience with senior company members was probably not the best baseline…

Mileth knocked and opened the door, gesturing for Bard to enter. He saw Elros sitting at the same table as before, and gave him a small wave. Elros returned the gesture, albeit stunted. Mileth was talking through the hidden door behind the security screens, which then opened. Tauriel stepped out.

"Bard, welcome back. Please forgive me, I hadn't realized Th- Mr. Oropherion hadn't given you access himself yesterday."

Bard raised both his hands in a 'no don't worry about it' gesture. "Not a problem, really."

"I think you'll find it much easier to navigate the building once it accepts you," Tauriel said with a quirk of her eyebrows, before speaking to Mileth quickly, then motioned Bard to follow her. "Come, what we need is just next door."

They walked out, down the entire length of the hallway (Bard thought Tauriel needed to reconsider the meaning of 'just next door'), and around. Mileth stayed behind and chatted with Elros. The room Tauriel led him into was black. Overlaying the dark was an illusion-glow, which didn't alleviate the darkness at all, but rather added a fog-like aspect. Tauriel, unlike Bard, didn't hesitate in stepping in, and vanished quickly.

"Ah, Tauriel…"

Bard heard a soft probably-curse followed by a louder not-said-like-a-curse, and then the dark was gently cut through with dim yellow light, though still bathed with illusion. It was just bright enough to let Bard make out Tauriel, standing a few paces ahead of him.

"Sorry about that," she said. Then she motioned Bard to the center of the room, where something that looked suspiciously like a tree-trunk ran from floor to ceiling. "Place your hand on there, anywhere. Greenwood's building is sung from this tree, and the tree considers it its duty to protect anyone is recognizes as its own. It is a _tirith-galadh_ , a guard-tree. They are infused with song-magic from a very young age." She said the last with reverence, running her own fingers along the definitely-a-trunk. A light blue glow emanated from under her fingertips.

Taking a breath, Bard approached, then placed his hand, fingertips first, along the trunk. A rush of magic flowed over him, and Bard shivered with the sensation. It was less harsh than the one at home, less like electricity and more like chilled water creeping over his skin. Goose bumps rose on his arms. Then the sensation cut out, and only a faint blue light where Bard's hand was still pressed to the trunk remained. 

He pulled his hand back, aware that the illusion-glow had disappeared. The tree must have stopped trying to guard against him. "Right then."

"Excellent!" Tauriel said, clapping her hands. "Let's go back, Mileth will be waiting. I'll have your ID made in the meantime; would you prefer a wearable version or a card?"

Bard blinked. "Um, whatever's easiest?"

Tauriel waved her hand as she lead him out of the room. Bard took a moment to let out a huff of breath—the warm glow that he had thought was due to the honey color of the wood in the hallways was gone. Instead, various striped bands ran along the walls, accompanied, at one point, by a map and a legend. Given, it was still all in Elvish script, but now Bard realized why he'd become so easily lost in the building. It was all an illusion, meant to confuse. _Tirith-galadh, indeed…_

"The wearable kind look like this," Tauriel said, pulling her sleeve up an inch and flicking the dark, worked leather bracelet. "The card looks… like a card, I suppose. Most of us choose the wearable kind, Thranduil included," she said with a shrug.

"Then I'll have that, too?"

"Understood." Tauriel opened the door and strode back in. The door, unlike the hallway, had not been illusioned—no wonder Bard had recognized it. "Mileth," Tauriel said, slipping back into Sindarin. Mileth seemed surprised, but nodded. She walked over to the door, where Bard was waiting.

"Just your car left to sort out," she said, walking into the hallway.

"Bye, Tauriel, Elros," Bard said with a wave.

"May the stars light your path," Tauriel responded, with a hand gesture that wasn't quite a wave but probably meant the same thing. Elros just waved again. Bard jogged a few steps to catch up to Mileth, who was sliding various screens around on her tablet.

"Tauriel said she would take care of your ID. You should stop by the front desk again before you leave to pick it up. Did you want an air- or ground-car?"

"Uh, ground?"

"Mm." A few seconds of tapping later, Mileth handed Bard her tablet, still walking. "You have the choice between any of these," she said, pointing to the five cars visible. Bard looked at the little blurbs underneath each one, which extolled their particular features. He glanced back at Mileth, unsure if he was actually supposed to choose, then looked back at the cars. None of them looked particularly kid-friendly, nor neighborhood-friendly.

"Um, Mileth?"

"Yes?"

"Do I have to take the car with me? Home, I mean. Because… well. Any of these would most likely get broken in to and stolen, or at least destroyed, out where I live…"

"No, I don't believe you do. You can take your own car to and from work, but your company car for any outings made while on company business. I'll arrange for it to be kept in our garage, below the main parking lot. You'll be able to retrieve it at any time using your ID for access."

"…right." Parking garage under the parking lot. Of course.

"Have you selected one, then?" Mileth asked, peering at the tablet.

"Ah, no, gimme a second…" Bard quickly read over his options again, then chose the only car with four doors. If ever it so happened that he had to take his kids with him anywhere, that would be easiest. _I_ know _Rohan makes cars that are bigger than this…_ He tapped the picture, outlining it with a green square. Mileth took her tablet back.

They walked together for a bit longer, Bard taking note of his surroundings—some of the stripes were growing thinner and others thicker as they walked. They arrived at an elevator, which was outlined with a rich red-dyed wood, the same as the thickest band on the walls. _Oh,_ Bard realized. _The bands are directions, not decorations._

"You remember the way to Mr. Oropherion's office, correct? Seventh floor and down to the end?" When Bard nodded, Mileth continued. "Good. This is where I leave you. He will be waiting for you in his office," she said, pressing the elevator button and turning to leave. "Don't forget to stop by the front desk for your ID before you leave!" she called as the elevator doors opened behind Bard.

"I'll keep that in mind!" he called back. He walked into the elevator, counting buttons until the seventh. He pressed it, and the doors slid shut silently. Not bad, for solid wood. Bard wondered how the _tirith-galadh_ took to all the electricity running through it, for all that the cables were disguised as vines.

The elevator doors slid open just as silently. Bard stepped out into the hallway, noting the seven bands of color that had been invisible last time. Each door he passed dropped one color off the wall, until he was left tracing only an off-white that seemed more like the wood had been sun-bleached than dyed. Mr. Oropherion's door was the same color. Bard knocked.

"Come in."

Swallowing down a sudden rush of nervousness, Bard opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Oropherion was reading a magazine, sprawled into his leaned-back desk chair with his feet on his desk. As soon as he looked up and saw Bard, he closed the magazine, pulled his feet down, and stood up.

"Ah, Mr. Bowman. Welcome back."

"Just Bard, please, Mr. Oropherion. Pleasure to be back, though."

The elf, dressed in silver and pastel blue this time, waved a hand. "Please, just Thranduil. Nobody calls me Mr. Oropherion." _Blatant lie._

"Your secretary does," Bard said, without stopping to think. He pressed his lips tightly together. _Shit._ Mr. Oropherion raised one thick eyebrow.

"Well, good thing you're not my secretary then, mm?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. no, i don't have any idea how companies work, sorry. i'm trying my best ~~i just wanted a legit excuse for thrand to give bard a makeover okay~~  
>  2\. tirith-galadh is literally just the combination of guard and tree in sindarin. you can praise my originality now thank <3  
> 3\. btw when i say tablets i mean like, the super-awesome semi-clear futuristic ones that like, tony stark and the people in blue people avatar have, ye? not like, drawing tablets or anything.  
> 4\. the car! is probably a 4-door version of the [audi a9,](http://xyya.net/uploads/posts/2011-05/1306426555_original_241967_zzn8zhz3xg8bxfk1pgefaed6e.jpg) take a look at some of the sweet inside tech features [here (1:55).](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzIOnV3bEZs) (the vid's in german, but the displays are bendable LED boards and it's SWEET).  
> 5\. no one asked, but thranduil 500% drives [this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7q15Hvg-wLM) (even if you don't speak german plz watch this video some of the technology they propose is amaaaaze)  
> 6\. sorry about the very little actual barduil interaction, haha ^^; _next_ chapter will be _all_ barduil, cross my heart ^^;; ~~only took five chapters... this just seemed like a logical place to cut it and i didn't want to delay the chapter any further than it already was otl~~


	5. Decking Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you deck out someone or something, you dress or decorate them in a special way."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plead the 'all-i-wanted-to-do-was-write-this-but-i-had-like-five-essays-and-two-tests-within-six-days-of-each-other' clause... ~~university is kicking my butt so hard i am like three whole sorrys~~
> 
> Regardless, I really must once again thank you all for your comments and kudos <3 seriously, knowing there's an audience is such a wonderful feeling and i?? am so, so thankful ~~this chapter brought to you by reviewers like you. thank you.~~
> 
> ANYWAYS. A WEEK LATE BUT GUYS. GUYS GUESS WHAT. ACTUAL? THRANDUIL AND BARD INTERACTIONS? CAN IT BE?

"Well, you're not lying," Bard said, raising his eyebrows slightly.  Thranduil snorted, somehow still managing to make the action graceful.

"It greatly reassures me to know I hired you for the right reasons," he replied, giving Bard a look that read as amusement, the illusion-glow casting a golden shimmer on his face. Internally, Bard heaved a sigh of relief, letting ease a tenseness he hadn't realized had been lurking in his shoulders. So Thranduil would tolerate a bit of backtalk; that was good to know.

"Mileth said you—er, I needed a wardrobe change?" Bard prompted, after an uncomfortable moment of being inspected head-to-toe by Thranduil.

"Mm? Oh, yes, that's right—for today you're suitably dressed, but if ever we go out on company affairs I expect you to wear Lasgalen. Right this way," Thranduil said, turning on his heel and sending his hair flaring out more than Bard thought strictly necessary. He then proceeded to stride straight up to, and _through_ , the wall.

"What the…" Bard squinted at the wall. There was no illusion-glow, which mean it was a real wall, and yet… how? Bard walked over and nudged it with a toe. Yeah, nope, solid, un-budging wall there, all right. "Um, Mr.—Thranduil?"

"No need for the Mister, I've already told you," Thranduil said, his voice audible even before he stepped back through the wall. "Also, you must pardon me, I forgot—" _lies_ , blatant lies, but by the twinkle in his eye Bard was sure Thranduil was counting on Bard's knowing it, "—that I need to register your magical signature to grant you access."

Bard watched silently as Thranduil pulled out his wallet, rifled through for a second, and then handed a small card over to Bard. Bard took it, immediately feeling the static magic it emitted. Once the hairs on his arms settled back into place, Bard handed the card back to Thranduil.

"Try now," Thranduil instructed, and Bard complied, once again touching his toe to the wall. This time, though, his toe kept going, and Bard followed in his entirety. There was a second of blackness across his vision before Bard emerged on the other side. The room he'd walked into was about the same size as Thranduil's office, and sported bookshelves along one entire wall. There was also a desk, but only a sleek computer rested atop it, no papers. On one wall hung two portraits, one of Thranduil and a silver-haired elf, the other of a young elf with Thranduil's hair color. _His son?_

Bard turned to look back at the wall, but saw neither illusion-glow nor, for that matter, actual _wall._

Then Thranduil took a step forward, and Bard saw his outline briefly flicker green before returning to normal. "Wonderful work, isn't it?" he said airily, breezing past Bard and motioning for him to follow with a twitch of his fingers. "I had Maiar Industries install it, and several others around the building. Cost a pretty fortune, but we have the money and the rooms are impenetrable, even by dragon fire." Bard could have sworn he saw the illusion-glow on Thranduil's face flicker. "All of Greenwood's employees have access to them at any time."

Bard raised an eyebrow. "Do you think a true-form dragon is going to attack you?" The only dragons left on Middle Earth nowadays were the small, relatively peaceful shape-shifting kind, most of whom chose to spend their days in humanoid form, anyways.

"You never know," Thranduil said, his voice just shy of rising truthfully. Bard was about to ask a clarifying question or two—seriously, if there were going to be _dragons_ involved in this job, he wasn't sure that he really needed the money _that_ badly—when Thranduil's outline flickered green again, just as he was stepping into what looked like an elevator. Bard's vision blacked out momentarily as he followed, and when he looked back behind him, all he could see was a seemingly solid wall. There was still no illusion-glow to found, which greatly disconcerted Bard.

"Right," he said, tucking his hands behind his back. "Where are we going, exactly?"

Thranduil gave his head a short shake, maneuvering himself so that Bard was to his right. "To meet Lhében."

Bard waited for more information to be forthcoming, but Thranduil seemed content to let the elevator descend in silence. After a few more seconds, Bard exhaled loudly. "And who is Lhében?"

"Lhében is an associate of mine." Bard was about to question the lying note of Thranduil's voice, when the elf hummed slightly and inclined his head in Bard's direction. "Or, rather, I hope she will come to be. She owns an alpaca farm."

This was seemingly of great import, and so Bard nodded. He drew breath to speak, but then the elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open, revealing a bronze-haired elf in a suit and, behind him, possibly the single most expensive car Bard had ever laid eyes on. It even had solar panels on top.

"Ah, thank you, Galion," Thranduil said, sweeping out of the elevator.

"Of course, sir," Galion replied with a short bow, before turning to Bard. "Mr. Bowman, we spoke last night. Well met." He extended a hand, and Bard shook it.

"The same."

"Ah, yes, Galion?" Thranduil said, hand on the car's door handle.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'll send you Bard's measurements, see to having him some clothes made? I'm thinking Lasgalen, spring of this year, at least until the fall lineup comes out, earth and ocean palettes?"

"Perhaps with a touch of forest as well?" Galion said, inspecting Bard. Bard glanced between the two, suppressing the urge to shout 'I'm standing _right here_ ' at them both.

"I'd find that acceptable. You can leave them in my anteroom, thank you. Bard, if you're coming?" Thranduil opened the car's door, holding it for Bard as Galion bowed once more and began to walk away.

"My measurements?" Bard asked, stepping into the car. He was momentarily distracted by its interior—it looked more like a small lounge than a car, and the inside paneling of the doors was covered with softly glowing screens that portrayed gently shifting patterns of light.

"Mm, yes," Thranduil said, reaching out to pick up a small tablet that was lying on the car's centerpiece, a coffee-table-like apparatus that rose from the center of the floor. He typed something quickly, then set the tablet down, and tapped one of the side panels. "Password: _aras._ Lhében's farm, please."

The car hummed quietly, typical noise of an electric engine, and a mechanical voice replied, " _7514 Locust Lane, Rohvanion. Expected arrival forty-seven minutes_." The sides of the car changed, displaying two maps—one aerial, one a 3-D reconstruction—and the car rumbled slightly as it lifted off the road. An air-car, of course. Bard should have guessed.

"How do you know my measurements?" Bard asked, though without actually looking at Thranduil—were the panels actually _computers?_ Thranduil looked at Bard with a smirk.

"I'm a designer who's been making clothes since before you were born, most likely. I'd consider myself fairly adept at eyeballing measurements, by now."

"Ah, I see," Bard said. His eyes darted down to the silvery grey vest Thranduil was wearing, noting the intricate leaf embroidery the decorated the entire front. He looked back up at Thranduil in question, and Thranduil nodded, a pleased smile replacing the smirk.

"Yes, I make all my own clothes." There was a pause, and Bard raised his eyebrows a bit higher, prompting. "Well, most of them. I find underwear and socks rather tedious." Bard snorted.

"Can't imagine what that must be like," he said, thinking of his own store-brand socks, bought in bulk and on sale. Thranduil gave him an odd look, then shrugged. He pressed a button on his chair as the car banked to the right.

"Wine?" Thranduil said, reaching into the opened compartment and pulling out a bottle and a glass. Bard looked at the wine in surprise for a second, then shrugged. Thranduil poured the glass a quarter of the way full, and passed it to Bard. "Dorwinion is stronger than the usual human kind, you'll forgive me if it's too little," he said.

"Thank you?" Bard said, taking a sip. He almost spat it back out, the burn was so strong; the taste of alcohol was only just barely hidden under the more usual wine flavor. _Stronger than the usual human kind, indeed…_ Thranduil poured himself a full cup, leaning back into his chair once he was done, the bottle disappearing back into the small compartment.

He hummed appreciatively as he took a sip.

"So what am I doing here, exactly?" Bard asked, tentatively taking a mouthful of the Dorwinion wine.

"Lhében and I are going to negotiate for the sale of her alpaca wool—" _Ah, so that's what the alpacas are for_ , "—and you'll be there to tell me whether or not Lhében is being honest about the prices she can take."

Bard pursed his lips. The Master, he would have expected to pull stuff like that—always going for the largest profit for himself, heedless of others. But Greenwood & Co. was the largest green-energy company in the entirety of Middle Earth, notoriously eco-friendly. He'd've hoped that Thranduil would have had some more of the ethics of his company.

"Don't look at me like that," Thranduil said flippantly, though Bard could detect a note of sincere annoyance underlying his words. "Lhében is as rich as I am, she could give away a year's worth of shearings and still be in the black. Legolas informs me that Lasgalen is considered 'rich kid clothing' at his school. We're a fair-trade company, and I won't pay our workers any less than we currently do, but I'd also like to see the price of our clothing line drop, to be more accessible for everyone. We can do that if we get primary producers like Lhében to drop their prices, particularly if they can afford it."

"Have you ever thought about using cotton or sheep wool instead?" Bard asked, and Thranduil paused mid-drink, looking at Bard like he'd lost his mind. "I'm just saying, if you want to make your clothes more accessible, you could probably go cheaper than alpacas. I'm assuming."

"…truthfully, I had not considered that. I will think on it," Thranduil said stiffly, and the pleasant atmosphere up to that point vanished, replaced with cool rigidity. Bard cringed inwardly. He'd already gone and pissed off his boss on day one, wonderful. Bard clenched a hand tighter around his wineglass, then swiveled in his chair to look out the window.

They were several hundred feet off the ground, speeding over the outskirts of Dale and the forest that surrounded it. Farther out, the forest gave way to farms and grazing land. Bard observed the scenery for a while, utilizing the fact that the chair turned to the best of its ability and looking out both the side and rear-view windows. He frowned.

"Is that car _supposed_ to be tailing us?" he asked, after watching it bank slightly just as they did. Thranduil opened his eyes and leaned forward, peering over Bard's shoulder at the car in question.

"Oh, yes," he said, leaning back with a soft exhale. Bard noticed his shoulders relax slightly. "That's Tauriel's car. She's my Head of Security, among other things. A bodyguard of sorts, if you will."

"Oh," Bard replied, turning back to look at the car once more. He hadn't considered that Thranduil would need a bodyguard, going anywhere.

"Do have any of those sort of skills?" Thranduil asked suddenly. Bard turned around and looked at him, confused.

"Bodyguarding skills?"

"Yes."

"Nope, none, sorry."

"Mm. Pity, I would have liked to be able to lessen Tauriel's workload a bit, if at all possible." Thranduil's words were flat.

Bard shrugged. "I can use a bow, I guess, if that counts for anything."

Thranduil cocked his head. "A bow?"

Bard nodded. "A longbow, actually. It's been my hobby since I was a kid. I'd consider myself fairly adept at hitting targets, by now," Bard said, unable to stop the corners of his lips from twitching as he quoted Thranduil from earlier. Thranduil gave him a small smirk, and the atmosphere of the car lightened considerably.

"Legolas practices archery," he said.

"Your son?"

"Yes. Not with a longbow, though. With a recurve."

"He any good?"

"I'd like to think he's adept," Thranduil replied, eyes twinkling. He took another sip of wine, nearly emptying his glass.

"How old is he?" Bard asked, shifting more comfortably in his seat.

"Eighteen, at the moment."

"Oh? So's my oldest."

"Tauriel mentioned you had three," Thranduil said, crossing his legs. "Might I inquire after them?"

"Sure," Bard replied. "Sigrid's the oldest, she's in her last year of secondary school. Then there's Bain, he's fifteen, just started secondary, and Tilda's the youngest. She's in the fifth grade right now."

"Where does Sigrid go?"

"Ah, her and Bain just go to Esgaroth Secondary, nothing fancy. Your son? Legolas, right?"

Thranduil nodded. "Legolas attends Dale City," he said. Bard resisted the urge to whistle. Dale City was one of the better schools in Dale, having garnered a general reputation for being the 'smart kid school'. Sigrid would have gone there, had they lived within the school zone. As it were, no buses had been available to take her there, at Bard had been working an early job that necessitated his use of the car.

"He's in his last year, too, right?"

"Yes."

"Does he know what he wants to do?"

"No," Thranduil said, both exasperated and amused. "He changes his ambitions weekly. This week, he wants to be an actor."

"Is that why he needs a horse?" Bard asked, remembering Thranduil's statement from yesterday. Thranduil smiled.

"Yes, precisely. He wants to do his own stunts."

"Ha, that's a dangerous route to go down. Is he in any of the school plays?"

"I believe he's auditioned for the upcoming ones, yes."

Bard nodded and leaned back in his chair. "So did Sigrid. This first one is their competitive play, maybe they'll end up meeting each other," he said, grinning.

"That would be most interesting," Thranduil said, returning the smile, though more restrained. He seemed about to add something, but just then the car began to slow and the mechanical voice spoke again.

" _Arrival in thirty seconds,_ " it said as it began to descend. Behind them, Bard saw Tauriel's car mirroring the action. The car came to a quiet stop, floating lower and lower until it was resting against the driveway, door facing a large house. Or a small mansion, Bard wasn't entirely sure which. He made a motion towards the door, but was cut off by a gesture from Thranduil.

"Tauriel will get the door for us, that's part of her job," Thranduil said, his face losing the smile that it had worn all throughout their conversation. "Don't speak if you can help it, you're here under official guise of new secretary. Here's your tablet, by the way," Thranduil said, picking the tablet off the coffee table and giving it to Bard. "Just pretend to look around on there while Lhében and I are talking, tap a few things. If she starts lying, give me a signal."

"A signal?" Bard asked, looking between the tablet in his hands and Thranduil. "What kind of signal?"

Thranduil waved his hand about airily. "A glance, a nod, something of that sort," he said.

"…right. A signal."

Then the door opened, a familiar shock of red hair fanning out slightly in the outdoor wind. "Thranduil, Bard, this way," Tauriel said seriously, though she winked at Bard. She was dressed down, her long, flowing robes gone, and instead replaced with brown slacks, tall boots, and an emerald green top that somehow managed to match her hair. She wore vambraces that looked like leather, and had two holsters strapped to her hips. Interestingly enough, her hair still remained largely unbound.

Thranduil took off without a second glance, striding purposefully up the sidewalk that led to the large black doors. Bard followed a step behind, feeling largely out of place. He held onto the tablet with both hands, just to give them something to do.

"Ready for your first assignment on the job?" Tauriel said to him in hushed tones.

Bard gulped as Thranduil climbed the steps to the entrance, and the door swung open.

"I sure hope so," he muttered. Tauriel smiled at him.

"You'll be fine," she said. Her words were just shy of truthful. Bard liked to think that was because of future uncertainties, not because of his inadequacy.

He exhaled. "I hope," he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. still don't know anything about companies or how they work, sorry. authorial license is my BFF  
> 2\. yes, literally everything thranduil does in this chapter is to show off to bard thrandy is not above that  
> 3\. also i just really wanted to work in thranduil's car, because c'mon. that shit is _awesome_  
>  4\. okay elf ages: elves live longer (they are NOT, however, incapable of dying of old age), but they mature more at human speed than tolkien's do in canon.  
> 5\. single dads ship ftw! (they would not stop talking...) also wow coming up with school names is about 45% harder than I thought it was send help. (and i'm really sorry about the kind of clusterfuck nomenclature going around? they use the term secondary school [shhh it sounds cool okay] but their school system is actually just the american one...)  
> 6\. question for the readers--how is my dialogue?? does it work???
> 
> Also, while I will be trying my best to get the next chapter out on my usual Sunday/Monday updating schedule, as I mentioned before, uni is seriously kicking my _ass,_ and I'm also trying to write a barduil Big Bang--so while I will be trying my best to write Soothsayer in a timely fashion, I really hope you can all forgive me if the next few chapters take a bit longer ^^;;;


	6. Acid Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _To refer to something as 'the acid test' means that it will prove how effective or useful something else is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys once again for not only your amazingwonderfulkind comments, but also with your patience with me as I gallivanted off to cons and schoolwork. Y'all are amazing <3

A rather nicely dressed elf that Bard assumed was a butler had pulled open the doors in front of Thranduil. Thranduil acknowledged him with a nod, then swept inside and began walking forward as if he owned the place, leaving Bard to scramble after him. Tauriel, on the other hand, didn't seem fazed at all, merely adjusting her stride to remain the same distance behind Thranduil. She nodded to the butler as well.

Then the butler looked at Bard, and after a second's hesitation, he also nodded, hoping he hadn't made too much a fool of himself. The butler returned his nod, but by that point Thranduil and Tauriel were already several meters farther down the hall, so Bard had to half-jog to keep up.

He felt utterly ridiculous, as well as completely out of place. He gripped the tablet a bit tighter, pulling it closer to his body.

Thranduil walked up the stairs at the end of the entryway, then took a right. Down the hallway and to the left, a door rested open, and Thranduil led the trio to it. Tauriel assumed a parade-rest position outside the door, and Bard hesitated as Thranduil walked right in, unsure if he was meant to follow or not. He shot a glance at Tauriel, begging for her help.

She smiled, then jerked her head in direction of the door, clearly signaling for Bard to enter. He smiled gratefully, and walked in.

Inside was wide and spacious, one wall comprised of a single window that was faintly pink-tinted. In the center of the room was a low table with a platter of cookies on top, as well as two cups. There were several chairs strewn about, but only one of them was occupied.

"Ah, nae saian luumé, Thranduil," said the elf, their dark skin wrinkly and old in a way that was scarcely ever seen on elves. They stood, making a hand gesture that Bard was unfamiliar with.

"Mae govannen, Lhében," Thranduil returned, making the same gesture in return. Lhében darted her eyes to Bard, then back to Thranduil, her face giving away no emotion beyond aloof inquiry. "My apologies," Thranduil said lightly, stepping sideways and motioning for Bard to move a bit closer. "This is Bard Bowman, my new secretary."

The words sank heavy with lies, but Bard smiled through it—he'd had practice enough not letting his reactions to lie-feelings show—and shook Lhében's hand.

"I will admit, I hadn't expected you to need a secretary," Lhében said, her voice in Westron heavily accented but no less sharp and cutting for that. Bard decided instantly that he didn't like her; it didn't help that her words were flat, which, given the circumstances, probably meant she was trying to make a dig at Thranduil. Or at Bard himself...

"You can rest assured that your expectations remain unmarred, then. I have no _need_ of a secretary, but I find having another pair of eyes and ears to be… _helpful_ ," Thranduil replied, smiling in such a way that Bard rather got the impression Thranduil would be quite content to accidentally throw Lhében out of her own window.

Lhében raised her eyebrows. "I see," was all she said. Thranduil nodded sharply.

"Let us get straight to business, then" he said, then walked over to the window, looking out. Lhében followed , taking a cookie from the table as she went. She stopped a few steps short of him, looking past his shoulder outside. Bard stayed where he was, tablet tucked against his chest.

"Those are the first herd, down there," Lhében said.

"How much are you charging?"

"Per?"

"Bale," Thranduil said, turning to face Lhében, back now to the window. "How foolish do you believe me?"

"Foolish, Thranduil? Not at all." _Lies._ "But young, still very young." _Truth._

"Indeed?"

"How many do you need?"

"How many do you have?"

"Four hundred heads in this herd here," Lhében said, gesturing loosely to the window. "Another five hundred at my second farm." She lifted her cookie to her mouth and took a teeny bite before straightening her posture. "The price is fifteen-hundred per bale."

Thranduil blinked, and Bard winced. His entire _rent_ was less than that. Utilities too, if they didn't use the AC.

"Is that the lowest you can go?" Thranduil said, a scoff lacing his voice. His eyes flicked to Bard, and suddenly Bard realized how cleverly Thranduil had positioned them—Lhében had her back to Bard, seemingly distracted by the herd of alpacas outside, but Thranduil was free to make eye contact.

"At the moment, yes," Lhében said. Thranduil glanced to Bard again, and Bard shook his head emphatically. Thranduil raised an eyebrow at Lhében, giving no further indication that he'd received Bard's signal.

"At the moment?" he asked coolly. Lhében shifted and tilted her head to look at Thranduil, the first sign of discomposure Bard had seen.

"Yes, this year the stock is growing their fiber slower. I believe it is the warmer temperatures to blame. I'm sure Greenwood understands."

"Indeed. I want five hundred dollars or less per bale, else Lasgalen buys elsewhere." Thranduil said this in the same tone that he'd used for Bard's introduction, but his eyes were narrowed and glittering, and he looked _dangerous._ Bard suppressed a shudder.

Lhében, however, didn't move. "Thranduil, you cannot be serious. Prices like that will run me to the ground! I cannot afford that!" Bard once again shook his head. Lhében's tone, though collected, was completely sincere—had her words not sank like a stone, Bard would have bought into every single one of them. Bard wondered if, at times, Thranduil himself could pull acts like that. The idea made the elf even more dangerous in Bard's mind.

"Please, Lhében, we both know your riches aren't small."

Lhében spat something in Sindarin at Thranduil, who shook his head slightly and replied in Sindarin as well. A moment passed in silence, neither elf seeming ready to back down.

"Very well, you have your price. But just this once, mind you."

Thranduil smiled coldly. "Hm, we shall see. Le fael, Lhében," he said, whatever he said in Sindarin a complete lie. _Probably thank you_ , Bard mused, adjusting the tablet in his grip as Thranduil began walking back towards the entrance.

"I wonder, though, if your secretary is really just a secretary," Lhében said, causing Thranduil to pause mid-step. He turned to look at her fully, and Bard couldn't see his expression, but he thought it was probably terrifying.

"I assure you, he is an invaluable assistant, inasmuch as Tauriel has always been."

"But of course. Your cars will be waiting out back," Lhében said with a serene smile.

"I thank you for your most kind hospitality," Thranduil lied, equally serene. Bard wondered what he was missing.

Then Thranduil spun around again, and Bard followed him out of the room. Tauriel fell into step with him as they passed her. They kept walking past the stairs they'd taken to get in, and Tauriel sighed. She glanced at Bard.

"She put the cars out back, didn't she?"

"Yes…" Bard replied. "What was that about, anyways?"

"'Out back' just means that it will take us an extra five minutes of walking through her house to get there, and then we can't take to the air immediately—according to Lhében, it bothers her alpacas. So we have to drive around for another twenty minutes before we leave the alpaca enclosure…"

"Ah."

"Petty, I know. You two must have made her fairly annoyed, to stoop to that again," Tauriel said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively at Bard. Bard shrugged.

"Thranduil got the price he wanted?" he offered.

"That would do it," Tauriel said with a smile.

True to Tauriel's word, they spent the next five minutes navigating Lhében's manor—having seen as much of it as he had, Bard felt fully justified in calling it a manor, and also very thankful that Thranduil was the one leading the way and he didn't need to do anything other than follow—and once they finally exited, they found the cars waiting for them but surrounded by alpacas.

" _Rhaich_ ," Tauriel said. The alpacas jeered at her. Bard didn't like their look. Tauriel moved forward, surpassing Thranduil and shooing the animals away. They went, albeit reluctantly and always with a glare. That done, Tauriel opened the door.

"Thank you," Thranduil said as he passed through, and Bard did the same. Tauriel closed the door and went to her own car, the motors of both firing up, barely audible.

One of the alpacas wandered next to Bard's window. It stared at him, its little eyes squinted and _evil._ It looked like it was ready to headbutt the glass just to get to Bard. Then the cars started moving, and the alpaca dropped away. _At least I don't have to be responsible for shearing them_ , Bard thought. That was one job he really wouldn't fancy.

He set the tablet down on the center table, glancing at Thranduil. Thranduil made no move to correct him, so Bard assumed it was fine. Though, Thranduil wasn't making _any_ moves, at all, so maybe that didn't mean as much as it could have.

Thranduil sat stonily in his seat until, finally, the cars drove through a large archway and took off, the motion caused by the engaging thrusters making Bard grip the arms of his chair tightly. Once they were at cruising altitude however, Thranduil began smiling, and broadly.

"Well done, Bard, well done," he said, practically purring. Bard fought off a blush at the tone—this was his _boss_ , no reason to blush.

"I, erm. Thank you, I didn't really do much, though…"

"Nonsense," Thranduil said, waving a hand. "Lhében is a remarkably good liar, I never would have been able to drive her that low were it not for your assistance."

Bard opened his mouth, then closed it again. There really wasn't anything he could say. Thranduil would have been perfectly fine without him, Bard was convinced, but on the other hand, if this meant that Thranduil wasn't going to fire Bard on day one, then… "Thank you?"

Thranduil nodded. "Now, I believe we left off on the topic of competitive plays?"

Bard leaned back into his seat, nodding, content to once again be on relatively familiar territory. "Yes, I think we were thereabouts… has your son's school decided on a play, yet?"

"To be quite honest, I'm not entirely sure," Thranduil said, pouring a cup of wine from his mini-cooler. He offered it to Bard, who raised a hand and shook his head. He had to drive himself home later, after all; with the strength of that wine, he'd barely be able to stand if he drank as much as he was being offered.

The two chatted the whole of the return way, Bard learning that Thranduil had raised his son mostly alone for the better part of twelve years, they had a pet dog named Aras—Sindarin for deer, Thranduil had said—, and that Thranduil had actually rescued a red elk once, and raised it for a year before turning it over to a rehabilitation center. Thranduil, for his part, got to hear about the time Bain had managed to get stuck in the laundry chute, Tilda's singular experiment in fish-raising thanks to a prize won at a fair, and the fact that Bard had almost gone to the Olympics for archery. As the car parked itself in the same spot it had picked them up, Bard found himself laughing, detailing the process of gardening according to toddler Sigrid, which had involved copious amounts of mud on everything except for the plants they'd been trying to plant.

"And then she decided—mind you, Sigrid's hair used to be pale blond when she was younger—that she wanted her hair to look like her father's… and her solution was to pick up the dirtiest looking splotch of mud that she could and smear it _everywhere_. She looked light a right swamp monster by the time she was done," Bard said, then refocused on Thranduil, whose eyes were thrown wide open, horrified. Bard laughed. "Took us about a week to get all that mud out of her hair," Bard added, still chuckling, and Thranduil even smiled, though he still looked a little shell-shocked. Then the door opened, and Thranduil went expressionless again. Bard found himself wishing the smile would stay.

"Thank you, Tauriel," Thranduil said, exiting his car. "Come, Bard, your clothes should be ready by now."

"Clothes, right." Bard followed Thranduil (he sensed this was becoming a theme) back into his office, through the existent-but-not-really walls, and finally to his desk, atop which was perched a large stack of clothing bags. Through the clear covers, Bard could see a collection of suits, shirts, pants, and ties, in various color schemes and probably styles, though he couldn't be sure. What he _was_ sure of, though, was that the price tag on any single one of those was easily $200.

"Excellent," Thranduil said. "There are no more meetings you're required to attend today, so I'll let you go early, on the condition that you try all of these on tonight and if there's anything that sits oddly, or isn't quite your color, you'll bring it back tomorrow to have it fixed. Understood?"

"Uh." Bard blinked, slightly taken aback, and glanced at the clock. It was only about one; was Thranduil seriously letting him leave this early? "Understood."

"Also, and pardon me for not mentioning this earlier, but your paycheck has been salaried, so please, don't worry yourself about hours lost." In truth, Bard hadn't had time enough to worry about that yet, but a salary was welcome news nonetheless.

"I—thank you."

"And it's been adjusted to the equivalent of forty dollars per hour, as Tauriel instructed you to put down," Thranduil added, looking at Bard with an expression that might have been amusement, but was perhaps a touch too threatening for that.

"Um. That's… Thranduil, that's simply too much," Bard said, trying to run calculations in his head and failing miserably. _Lots_ , that was how much money that was. More than he'd had in a long, long time. Perhaps ever.

"Nonsense. You just saved me a thousand dollars per nine hundred alpacas, the least I could do is repay you in kind."

Bard bobbed his head, not certain what Thranduil was expecting from him, exactly. "Thank you, again."

"Good. Now, here are your clothes," Thranduil said, wasting no time in loading the entire stack onto Bard's arms. It must have weighed at least fifty pounds all told. Bard opened his mouth. "And please don't say thank you again, I'm merely outfitting you correctly to work at my company, that is hardly a deed worth thanking one over," Thranduil said before Bard could speak. Bard averted his eyes.

"Okay, well, in that case, I'll be going, then?"

"Tomorrow morning, same time. Come directly to my office."

"Yes, sir."

"Until then," Thranduil said, sitting down in his chair and throwing his feet up onto the table.

"Uh... Bye." Bard fumbled through the sheer quantity of clothes in his arms until he managed to both open and close the door behind him. Getting down the elevator and out the doors of Greenwood was an equally difficult task, made even more so by Mileth running him down and insisting she give Bard his ID, which turned out to be a leather bracelet engraved with a complicated series of intertwining branches and leaves that Mileth wrapped and tightened around Bard's arm, even as he continued to hold the stack of clothes. She also gave him a set of car keys.

Once she was done, Bard finally managed to make it out the building. He drove home in his pickup, preferring the Barge to a new shiny car that would undoubtedly get keyed anyways. He hung up all his clothes, deciding that he would rather deal with that later, and then planted himself face down on the couch.

He needed a moment.

"How was work, da?" Sigrid asked him, when she came home a few hours later.

"It was… interesting."

"Interesting? Interesting how?"

"Well, for starters, there were a lot of alpacas involved…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. the sindarin means roughly 'it's been too long' and 'well met', if online sources are to be trusted, and then 'thank you' for the last bit (literally 'you are generous' which is 400% sarcasm on thranduil's part)  
> 2\. prices are completely fictional ~~i don't even know how much fiber a bale even is, sorry~~  
>  3\. i'm not entirely sure WHY bard dislikes alpacas as much as he does...  
> 4\. clothing bags, right? like, the thing they use to cover expensive suits? that's what they're called, right?  
> 5\. thranduil's paying bard a salary stems directly from tauriel's going to thrandy and complaining about bard and money adjustments until he did something about it (which was basically as soon as tauriel said 'three kids')  
> EDIT: proofread thoroughly now ^^ ~~6\. a more thorough editing will be done tomorrow when i get up, and i'll post a link on tumblr then, but for now i don't want to delay the chapter anymore, so it's a bit rough grammatically still methinks ^^;;~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~urk, not my best chapter... sorry guys ;n; trying to get back into the swing of this fic;;~~


	7. Moving the Goalposts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"During a course of action, if someone moves the goalposts they change the rules or conditions."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRSTLY-- thank you all _so much_ for your continued patience and support, most likely only another week or two of continued schedule craziness until my workload gets to the point of being able to do weekly updates again :)
> 
> SECONDLY-- schmoopy, self-indulgent, help-I-need-a-break-from-writing-the-Big-Bang chapter, I hope you guys enjoy reading as much as I did writing :D

After dinner, Bard subjected himself to a round of dress-up, to which even Bain took (alarmingly enthusiastic) part.

"No, da, you have to leave the top button open, that's how those shirts are _worn_ ," Bain insisted, making a show of rubbing his temples.

"He's actually right, for once," Sigrid said, already holding up another shirt in her hands. After a second in which all three of his children nodded at him, Bain caught on and looked at Sigrid with a look of betrayal.

"Hey!"

Sigrid shrugged, not seeming even remotely sorry. "Just saying. But you have to unbutton the sleeve cuffs and roll the sleeves up, too. And ties don't go with that, give it up, da!" she added when she saw Bard reach for one. He groaned. "Trust me," Sigrid continued, "Eowyn was showing me Lasgalen's new lineup yesterday, there was very similar shirt, but in blue."

"Probably was the same shirt, actually," Bard said, complying—albeit reluctantly—with his children's demands and leaving the collar button undone, as well as painstakingly rolling up the sleeves. The shirt, though a dark orange on the outside, was lined with a softer cream fabric that was visible on the sleeves.

Sigrid blinked owlishly at him for a moment. "The same shirt?"

"Mmhm," Bard nodded, taking Bain's shoulders and scooting him out of the way for an unimpeded view of the mirror. "Greenwood owns Lasgalen." Sigrid sat down heavily on Bard's bed, and Bard raised an eyebrow. "I thought you knew?"

"Well I don't care," Bain said, taking the shirt from Sigrid's hands and holding it up. "The one you're wearing now can go in the 'yes' pile, though!"

"Yeah!" Tilda chimed in, already eagerly holding out her hands. Bard smiled as he quickly unbuttoned the shirt fully, passing it off to his youngest. She'd been charged by her siblings to make sure that all of the already-tried-on-shirts were properly folded, a task which she'd been reluctant to do until Bard had assured her it was most necessary.

He accepted the next shirt from Bain, chuckling ruefully. If he'd known the easiest way to get his children in the same room without constant bickering was to have him play dress up, he would have done so much, much sooner.

Seven shirts and two pairs of pants later (notably featuring a black-and-white shirt that Bain and Sigrid had instantly declared a 'no' and Tilda had truthfully said 'penguin' to), Bard glanced at the clock.

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" he said, trying to stop Tilda from pulling another shirt down over his head. "It's getting late—it _is_ late—and need I remind you all that you have school tomorrow?"

"Boo," Bain said, making a face, but he was nonetheless the first person out of Bard's bedroom. Sigrid followed after, but Tilda happily stayed on Bard's bed, swinging her legs as she watched Bard threw on a T-shirt and carefully put all the company clothes back into garment bags, then hung them up in his now stuffed-looking wardrobe.

"Da?"

"Yes, princess?"

"Could you read me a fable before bed?" she asked innocently, looking up at Bar with wide eyes. Bard looked at his clock, then back at Tilda's hopeful face, and then sighed.

"Alright, but just _one_ fable, okay?" he said. Tilda clapped cheerfully and ran off to find her book.

 

Three and a half fables later (Bard was a bit of a pushover, truth be told), Tilda was asleep, Bain was if not asleep then at least in bed, and Sigrid was curled up on the couch in the living room, reading. Bard watched her read for a few moments, wondering at how much like her mother she'd come to look.

"Don't stay up too late, okay?" he said. "You _do_ have school."

"Yes, da. Goodnight," she said, barely looking up from her book.

"Goodnight, love."

Bard returned to his room, exchanging pants for boxer shorts before checking to see if his phone was fully charged. It was; but there was also a text from an unknown number. Bard frowned, hesitating a moment before opening the message.

> _From: +1752993500923  
>  Received today, 20:03_
> 
> _Please wear the dark orange dress shirt with black pants and shoes tomorrow. Tie not required._
> 
> _-T_

Bard stared at the message for a couple of seconds. There was no doubt who it could be from, but why was he texting personally? If anything, Bard would have expected another call from Galion. Or Tauriel, or Mileth… they couldn't have signed for Thranduil either, because while Bard's soothsaying abilities didn't extend to most of the written word, he'd always been able to detect forgeries whenever signatures were concerned. Once, when he'd been young, his parents had taken him to a public showing of art, and had then proceeded to be very, very surprised when their seven-year-old son had stated that one of the Celebrimbor pieces had been a forgery.

After some smooth talking about noticing a historically inaccurate style of clothing, Bard's father had taken him to the side and explained exactly what it meant, when names seemed all blurry yellow colored and why sometimes words felt so wrong they hurt Bard's stomach. Girion's line, truth-telling, he shouldn't ever tell anyone else, so on so forth… Bard himself had never had to deliver such a talk, as none of his children possessed the ability.

Bard shook his head, re-focusing on the problem at hand: how to reply to one's boss sent a text message detailing what clothes one should wear the next day. He typed _OK_ , erased it and typed out _Fine_ , then erased that as well, replacing it with _Okay._

Still, his finger hovered over the 'send' button—did he need to sign off? After several seconds of indecision, Bard decided against it—after all, Thranduil clearly knew who he was texting, so he probably didn't need a reminder… right? Bard hit send before he could dwell on it too much.

The message showed it had sent, and Bard sat down on his bed, chewing his thumbnail and hoping he hadn't made a fool of himself. He nearly jumped when his phone buzzed, biting down a bit too hard on his thumb.

> _From: +1752993500923  
>  Received today, 22:42_
> 
> _Good._

Bard stared at the text. Was he expected to answer that? Bard began chewing his thumbnail again, before making up his mind and deciding to run with it before he thought about it too hard.

> _To: +1752993500923  
>  Sent today, 22:44_
> 
> _Sigrid was impressed that Greenwood owns Lasgalen._

Bard waited until the little green checkmark popped up that confirmed the message as sent before hurriedly adding Thranduil's number to his contacts, first under 'Thranduil' (too casual?), then 'Mr. Oropherion' (but he'd been asked not to call him that…), and finally under 'Thranduil Oropherion'.

Then Bard closed the case and tossed his phone on top of his pillow, and went to the bathroom, brushing his teeth for as long as he could convince himself was still only the recommended two minutes. He also washed his face twice, before giving up pretenses and hurrying back to his room. He flipped the case open, unlocking the phone almost before he'd processed what he was doing. There was a new text.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 22:50_
> 
> _Oh?  
>  And would you mind coming in at 09:00 tomorrow morning? _

Bard thought for a moment—well, the kids were generally out of the house by then, and if he took a quick shower… plus, his outfit was already picked out for him.

> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 22:51_
> 
> _Yeah, she and a friend were looking at a magazine earlier today, I guess one of the shirts you sent home with me was in the magazine.  
>  And no, I wouldn't mind. I should be able to make it._

Bard shoved his face into his pillow, rolling over onto his back when the image rose to his mind of Sigrid having done the same thing when she'd been fourteen and crushing on the one cute boy in the older grade. He wasn't a teenager, damnit. And he was just talking to his boss, anyways. Like they'd talked for hours in the car. It wasn't—Bard grabbed his phone as it began to vibrate.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 22:53_
> 
> _Our advertising campaign is doing well, then, that's always good to hear.  
>  And excellent. I will see you then. Sleep well, Bard._

Bard could practically hear the self-satisfied smirk in the first sentence, and he smiled.

> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 22:54_
> 
> _Good night, Thranduil._

Bard sent the message off, then double-checked that his alarms for the next morning were properly on and loud enough to rouse him. Then he took off the bracelet-ID-thing, laying it down next to his phone. He fell asleep watching the filtered light from his window illuminating the small designs on the leather's surface.

 

The next day, Bard saw his kids off to school and then proceeded—as per Thranduil's instructions—to wear the dark orange shirt and black pants, no tie. He adjusted the collar properly in the mirror, then gave himself a once-over. Sigrid and Bain's voices from the night before rand in his head, and with a heavy sigh, Bard rolled his sleeves up and undid the top button of the collar.  

Grudgingly, he admitted that it looked marginally better—at the very least, that level of casualness contrasted less horrifically with the untamable mass that was his hair, currently still slightly damp and curled. He fastened on his bracelet-ID, the rich brown leather matching his hair. In the daytime, the designs were almost invisible, unless you looked closely enough.

He checked his phone—08:36, not bad, he wouldn't be altogether too late. He grabbed his wallet and keys, noticing that someone had left half a cup of coffee still on the counter—probably Bain, Sigrid was too addicted to leave any behind—and so Bard made quick work of finishing that off before leaving.

The Barge made good time through the ground traffic, although a few new construction spots had opened up and necessitated re-routing. Bard pulled into Greenwood's lot at 9:03, which, all things considered, really _wasn't_ too bad. He vaguely hoped that Thranduil would also see it that way, though, if Bard were honest, Thranduil didn't seem to be nearly as harsh and strict a boss as Bard originally thought he would have been.

Bard entered through the doors and was immediately swept up by Tauriel, once again wearing her longer traditional dress.

"Morning, Bard!" she said. "And you got your ID with you, good! Sometimes people forget on the second day, it's a nightmare..." she motioned for Bard to go through the doors leading back into the offices.

"Morning to you too," he replied, waving cheerily at Mileth as they passed by. "Thranduil already waiting for us?" Bard asked, and Tauriel smiled lightly.

"Yes, busy day and all that," she said. Her words wavered on the line between truthful and neutral.

"Busy day…?" Bard prompted once it became clear Tauriel wasn't about to elaborate of her own accord.

"You'll see," she replied cryptically, still half-smiling as they exited the elevator and walked down the hall to Thranduil's office.

"…okay."

They entered the office, and Bard looked around at the empty room before Thranduil walked through a wall— _oh, right, he can do that_ —and paused, his eyes widening slightly as he saw Bard. A millisecond later, he was walking to his desk as if nothing had happened, and Bard had to wonder if he'd imagined the shocked expression.

"Good morning, Bard. I trust you slept well?"

Bard smiled at the reference to his text message. "That I did, thank you. You as well?"

Thranduil returned the smile, though it seemed a bit strained. "Adequately." Bard frowned slightly at the lie, but Thranduil didn't change his expression at all, and so Bard decided to drop the topic.

"So, why did you want me here early?"

Thranduil grimaced, though the gesture didn't make him seem any less beauti—Bard shut down _that_ train of thought. Tauriel snorted, and Bard raised a questioning eyebrow at her, while Thranduil scowled. She waved her hand at Thranduil, who then sighed.

"In truth, calling you here early was… most likely not _strictly_ necessary," he said slowly, giving Tauriel a looked that seemed to _dare_ her to speak up. To her credit, she didn't even flinch. "We are going to meet an old… business associate of mine today." _Neither lie nor truth_. "It's… a complicated history, which is why I wanted you here early—it requires some explaining and preparation before heading there."

Bard glanced between Tauriel, who appeared to have donned her best 'I'm a bodyguard' face and was staring straight ahead, and Thranduil, who was now shuffling around some papers on his desk.

"Okay…"

Thranduil sighed again.

"Tell me, Bard, does the name Thorin Oakenshield mean anything to you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i don't actually have any comments to add, for once. you guys are awesome? be on the lookout for my big bang this friday? yeah :DDD


	8. No Love Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"To say that there is no love lost between two people or organizations means that they do not like each other at all."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OFF THANK YOU GUYS SO SO SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT AND LOVE AND I??? THANK YOU <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> Secondly, I'm sorry this took so long--I hit a major writer's block, but in trying to overcome that, I ended up figuring out a plot for the rest of the fic? So that's good :D However, kinda bad news--I'm going out of the country for two weeks, so unfortunately, updates can't really be expected during that time... sorry :(
> 
> Thirdly, things start a-happening! Enjoy :D

"Oakenshield?" Bard asked, rolling the name around in his mind as he tried to recall if he'd heard it before. Thranduil nodded, but Bard shook his head. "No, doesn't ring any bells…"

"And if I say Durin and Sons?"

"They make jewelry, right? And you mentioned them during my interview, I think…"

Tauriel made a noise somewhere between a cough and a snort. Thranduil shot her a disapproving look.

"Yes, they make jewelry. Lasgalen had a partnership of sorts with them, for accessories and the like. Thorin recently put in an invoice for a meeting, which I'd… momentarily placed out of mind." Tauriel snorted again, Thranduil's words falling flat-angled-down in the air.

"Okay." Bard glanced between Thranduil and Tauriel, wondering what was coming next. Thranduil picked up some papers, stacking them neatly and making sure they all lined up. Finally, Tauriel sighed loudly.

"Basically Thorin hates Thranduil's guts and the sentiment isn't necessarily one-sided," she said. Bard raised his eyebrows at Thranduil, who seemed to deflate a bit.

"Oakenshield and I… Truthfully, it is an… a _grudge_ that goes back to the days of Thorin's grandfather, Thrór. The events were preceded by a series of other happenings, but, in essence, Durin and Sons was on the verge of bankruptcy at the same time I had just decided to begin Lasgalen. Thrór—and Thráin, his son and Thorin's father—sought partnership with then-new Lasgalen Design, and I refused them." Thranduil paused, staring at his desk for a moment, and Bard took a moment to carefully consider the different levels of truth and falsehood in Thranduil's words—he wasn't outright lying, but he also wasn't telling the truth straight-up.

"I didn't like their designs, at the time," Thranduil continued. "In any case, Durin and Sons went bankrupt shortly after that, and I do believe there was some nasty issue to do with mental stability of someone or another… the point being, Thorin has been trying to rebuild his company nearly from scratch since then, and has never forgiven me for the slight." Thranduil looked up at Bard, who chewed his thumbnail absently as he tried to decide how to respond.

"Okay… well, first things first, I guess, and I know I'm not supposed to ask and all, but—you're talking about this Thorin's _grandfather_ as if—well, you weren't lying, so you _were_ there, but—er, how old are you, anyways?"

There was a beat of silence as both elves stared at Bard, and then Tauriel began to laugh, and Thranduil smirked. "Of all things I just told you, _that_ is what you focus on?" Bard shrugged helplessly, and Thranduil chuckled. "I'm near to two-hundred, though I first founded Lasgalen when I was one hundred and twenty-three years old."

"Oh," Bard said, quite honestly shocked. He'd known, in that vague, academic way, that elves had longer lifespans than humans by several hundred years, but to see that in action was… "Well. You look good. Er, for your age, I meant to say. Not that you don't—you know what, I'll just shut up now, you carry on," he said, slipping into a mutter towards the end.

Tauriel was still laughing quietly, avoiding Bard's elbowing motions. Thranduil, for his part, merely nodded, and continued.

"Yes, well, like I said—Thorin has spent the last… several decades, I believe, rebuilding Durin and Sons to something the likes of which it was before its unfortunate fall. And in all that time, he has made no overtures at business, despite his cousin and I having an agreement. Which is why it is all the more peculiar that he should decide to contact me now."

"So wait, you're saying—let me just make sure I've understood this correctly—that Durin and Sons _isn't_ a partner with Lasgalen? And for unknown reasons, this guy that hates you for your involvement or lack thereof is suddenly contacting you?"

"Oh, Valar no, I shudder to think what that would mean if we were partners," Thranduil said.

"Civil interactions," Tauriel muttered, and Bard shot her a smile. Thranduil rolled his eyes.

"But other than that, yes, you appear to have it," he said. Bard stared for a second.

"Thranduil, I'm a soothsayer," he said. The truth of his own words countered the unease that Thranduil's had sent, calming down his stomach somewhat. (On the other hand, it felt… odd, almost _wrong_ , to announce out loud what Bard had spent most of his life, if not hiding, then also not _declaring_ ).

Thranduil purposefully averted his eyes from Bard's. "I myself am unclear as to the exact nature of the request, but suffice it to say that Thorin has invoked a name which greatly interests me, as both owner of Greenwood and an elf committed to the cause Greenwood represents."

Bard pulled an exasperated face, but this time, at least, Thranduil wasn't lying, so Bard let it drop. "So the meeting is… today?"

Thranduil nodded. "Yes. At ten o'clock, actually." He glanced at the clock on his wall. "Which means we should be going soon, their building is located on the edge of town." Thranduil straightened up from where he'd been leaning on his desk, his clothes today in a more elven style, long silver coat ( _is that even a coat, though?_ ) hanging in the air for a second before following its wearer.

Thranduil walked straight through the wall again, leaving Tauriel and Bard staring after him. After a split second, Tauriel motioned to the wall as well.

"After you," she said, and Bard grimaced, but walked into the wall, sticking a toe through before the rest of him followed. Tauriel passed through right after Bard, her outline blurring green for a second. _Almost matches her clothes_.

Thranduil was already waiting in the elevator, looking impatient. Bard picked up his pace, and behind him, Tauriel did the same. They descended in silence.

At the bottom, Galion was already waiting for them, car and all. This time, Bard noticed Tauriel's car behind theirs—er, Thranduil's. Thranduil climbed into the car, taking his seat, and Bard followed suit, buckling up as the engine hummed to life. The car took off, and Bard spent the first few minutes looking down at the ground-traffic from their vantage point.

"Ah!" Thranduil said suddenly, startling Bard, who stared at him with wide eyes. Thranduil had the sense to look sheepish. "My apologies for startling you. I merely wished to discuss with you—the trick that I pulled with Lhében will not work with Thorin." Thranduil paused, reconsidering. "Well, it would most likely work if it were just Thorin, but his advisors are clever and would notice right away, as well as keep an eye on you."

"So we need a new signal?"

Thranduil nodded. "Yes, precisely. I wonder…"  Thranduil tapped his fingers a few times on his armrest, staring blankly out a window.

"The tablet you have me yesterday had a stylus, didn’t it?" Bard asked after a few seconds.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I believe it does, why?"

"Well, if I was pretending to take notes on your conversation or something like that, then I could… um, well, on second thought, nevermind."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes slightly. "No, no, I think you might be on to something… tell me, Bard, do you fiddle with your pen when writing?"

"Ah, sometimes? I think?" Bard answered, not seeing the connection. Was he going to fiddle with a pen in different ways? Thranduil nodded slowly, however.

"Well, you will now. And every time Thorin, or whomever, says the truth… tap three times. Once for falsehoods."

"Twice for neither?"

Thranduil nodded again, looking self-satisfied this time. "And try to make it look like an accident."

"Right, I'll do my best… how often do you want me to signal, then? I doubt they'd appreciate me tapping through the entire meeting."

"I suppose you'd be correct…" Thranduil stared out the window again, and Bard followed his gaze, noting that they'd almost stopped moving in the traffic. "Very well, as there is no reasonable way to predict how the conversation will unfold, I will leave it up to your discretion." Thranduil made eye contact, thin and nearly invisible lines around his eyes making them sharp and piercing. "If you believe a piece of information could prove salient in its truth or untruth, let me know via these tapping signals. If not… pretend to fidget."

Bard nodded. "Right."

"Good," Thranduil replied, then looked out the window again. He tapped a few controls on the sides of the car, and the time came up, nearing 9:45. Thranduil muttered what sounded like a curse in Sindarin, glaring balefully out the window at a nearby car.

"Are we late?" Bard asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"Getting there," Thranduil said. He sighed, then glanced back at Bard. "Would you mind if I did something slightly illegal?"

Bard frowned, unsure how he was expected to answer this. "Uh?"

"Car, give me manual," Thranduil said out loud, smiling faintly at Bard. "Don't worry, we won't get in trouble, a good friend of mine works for the Dale Police."

" _Um?_ "

Thranduil spun his seat around, and leaning a bit towards the center, Bard could see a steering wheel emerge from the paneling, and could only assume that pedals did the same at Thranduil's feet. Thranduil smiled at Bard from the newly-appeared rearview mirror. "Hold on," he said, no sooner having done so than the car launched above the rest, disobeying at least five air-traffic laws that Bard knew offhandedly about, and speeding forward rather _not_ in a lane.

Tauriel's car, as best Bard could tell, followed in their wake.

The next ten minutes or so left Bard wondering if Thranduil actually knew how to drive, or if he was just saying so—he accelerated far too fast and made corners at speeds that they shouldn't have been, especially flying willy-nilly through the air as they were, not even following a set route. True to Thranduil's word, though, they didn't get stopped by the police, so Bard figure that, at least, was working in their favor.

"Ah, car, autopilot again," Thranduil said as the clock neared 9:55. The steering wheel retreated, and the car slowing down considerably as Thranduil's chair turned back around. He typed something into the coffee table, and Bard almost jumped as a small compartment appeared from the roof of the car, dropping a flat box into Thranduil's hands. Thranduil opened the box, and Bard peered over.

"…is that a crown?"

"Of sorts," Thranduil said, lifting the intricate circlet out of its case and placing it gently on his head. "I am related to royalty, and while humans and certain elves do not stand by the conventions of rank any longer, if I know Thorin, he most definitely will. Best to look the part."

"Oh. Right. Of course, why _wouldn't_ you be related to royalty." Thranduil cocked an eyebrow at Bard, but didn't comment. He tapped one of the windows, which immediately became a mirror, and then he adjusted the circlet to be perfectly centered over his forehead.

"How do I look?" Thranduil finally asked, pulling two locks of his hair forward, one on either side of his face. The thin circlet set off the silvery hues of his coat/wrap thing, and Bard stared for a second before his wits gathered enough to answer.

"Um, look? Ah, yeah, you—yeah, you look fine. Great, actually."

The corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched. "I'm sure it's merely for my age," he said.

Bard rolled his eyes, though he grinned. "Ilúvatar have mercy…"

Then Thranduil turned serious. "Remember, three taps is truth, two taps is uncertain, and one tap is lie."

"Got it," Bard said, gritting his teeth against his own minor lie. Thranduil looked him over once, then nodded.

"Very well, let's go," he said. He tapped the window, and the car door opened, Tauriel holding it as she had last time. Bard glanced at Thranduil's face once more—like before the meeting with Lhében, a curtain seemed to have descended, Thranduil's face incredibly still and closed off. _I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that look, that's for sure_.

Bard exited the car as soon as the tail of Thranduil's coat did. He blinked a few times in the brighter light, finally focusing on the entrance of the building Thranduil was leading them towards.

He wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd been expecting from Durin and Sons, but a literal _forge_ hadn't been very high on the list. The building looked like a large, very outfitted garage, if Bard was honest—the door was flung open, retreated into the ceiling, and the shadows of large fires were flung across all the walls. There was a lot of loud clanging inside, which stopped as they neared. Then, a pair of figures approached, one of them still drying their hands off on an oily rag.

"Fíli," said the one with the rag, blond hair thick with braids.

"And Kíli," said the other one, a touch taller and with dark hair.

Then they both bowed and said, in unison, "At your service!"

_Oh,_ Bard thought.  _Thranduil didn't mention they were dwarves._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry it's so short ^^;; this seemed like the most natural place to break it  
> 2\. not very many comments on this one either--thanks again to all you lovely folks <3 you make writing this most definitely worth it :D


	9. Ostrich Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Someone who adopts an ostrich policy chooses to ignore or evade an obvious problem in the hope that it will resolve itself or disappear."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible horrible liar and I apologize *throws a chapter at you*

"Thranduil, at yours," Thranduil replied with an incline of his head, the statement ringing false to Bard (and probably also to everyone else in the room, given the tone with which it was said). 

"Tauriel, likewise," Tauriel said, actually bowing slightly. After a beat, Bard realized the others were looking at him, expectant. 

"Um, Bard, also at your service," he said, bowing and hoping that was all that was required of him—he'd been raised with almost exclusively human etiquette, handshakes and full names. Luckily, it seemed as if that really was all, because Fíli and Thranduil quickly diverted into a series of posturing sentences that had Bard rolling his eyes. 

"We're here to see Thorin."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Of sorts."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I highly doubt Balin entered it into your company-wide calendar, but I assure you, I spoke with Thorin over the phone and we agreed upon this time," Thranduil snapped, shooting Fíli a dirty glare. Fíli didn't back down, merely staring right back at Thranduil. A few steps away from Fíli, Kíli ( _and who named_ them, Bard wondered) was making faces at the other dwarf's back. Then he stopped and blew a kiss with a wink. 

For a moment Bard was confused, then he turned and noticed Tauriel hiding a faint blush, making vigorous 'abort mission' gestures at Kíli. Bard grinned, nudging her with an elbow, and she blushed even more deeply, shaking her head with a grimace. She looked like she was about to say something else, but then Fíli broke the silence. 

"Fine then," he said, before turning to Kíli. "Kíi, c'mon, we're taking them to Uncle." Fíli held Kíli's gaze, his eyebrows twitching softly, and they seemed to come to an agreement, because then Kíli nodded, and the two set off in tandem, leaving Thranduil, Tauriel, and Bard to follow behind them. 

They passed several large smithing machines on their way, but the forge they'd walked into soon morphed into low-ceilinged hallways, low enough that Thranduil had to duck his head at times to avoid getting hit by the top of an archway. The hallways were as confusing as Bard remembered Greenwood being the first day, though when he paid special attention for an illusion-glow, he couldn't find any. They walked for at least a solid minute before encountering anyone else. 

Bard only noticed the dwarf standing in one of the side rooms, the door open, because Fíli waved briefly before continuing on.

"Hello, amad!" Kíli called out to the dwarf, bringing the small party to a halt just outside the door, Fíli doubling back with a mildly annoyed expression.

"Hello, boys," she said, her voice deep and somehow melodic, even with only those two words. Her dark beard was intricately braided and woven through with silver, and she was wiping her hands with a rag, scraps of metal and tools strewn about the room. "And hello, guests," she added, her eyes piercing as she looked at them (though Bard thought he could detect a slight crinkling at the corners that spoke of a smile). 

"Lady Dís," Thranduil said, actually bowing this time, the corners of his lips twitching. 

Lady Dís merely continued to clean her hands off, staring at Thranduil for a moment, before flicking her gaze to Tauriel, then Bard, and then finally to Kíli and Fíli, raising her eyebrows ever-so-slightly. Then she threw her rag to the side, looking Thranduil straight in the face as she answered. 

"Nope, I told Thorin I want  _no part_ in this company business," she said, pushing her way past the group at the door and retreating the way they'd just come. "I'll see you at lunch, boys," she called over her shoulder, raising one hand in a wave. The group of five watched her retreat in silence for a moment, before Fíli motioned for everyone to follow him again. Thranduil was smiling, and Bard raised an eyebrow at him in question. 

Thranduil shrugged, then leaned in, whispering into Bard's ear, "Don't tell the dwarves, but I've always liked Dís." Bard suppressed a shudder as Thranduil's breath tickled his ear (and it  _tickled_ , that was the  _only_ reason why Bard felt a spark run up his spine, the  _only reason_ ). 

"Your secret's safe with me," Bard muttered back, rolling his eyes, but smiling nonetheless. 

"We're here," Fíli announced, knocking on the door. A voice answered, speaking in a language Bard didn't understand. Fíli answered in the same, and Bard figured it was probably Khuzdul. The voice on the other side of the door spoke again, and Fíli opened the door, gesturing Thranduil in. Fíli and Kíli entered after Bard, closing the door behind them. Bard and Tauriel followed him, Tauriel taking up a place by the door while standing at parade rest, and Bard simply doing his best to not look  _completely_ out of place as he tried to take in the intricacy of the baubles that decorated the office—or negotiating room, Bard wasn't entirely sure which. 

Thranduil ignored the surroundings, instead focusing on the dwarf sitting at the head of the small table-slash-desk in the middle of the room. 

"Thranduil," the dwarf said, his voice completely devoid of inflection. 

"Thorin," Thranduil replied, equally coolly. Bard was sure he heard an undercurrent of 'asshole' in there somewhere, though he wasn't sure whether it was Thorin's glowering or Thranduil's perfectly blank face that most gave him that impression.  _Both,_ he decided.  _Both is good._  

Thorin's eyes flicked to him, then to Thranduil, and Thorin began speaking... in Sindarin. Bard exhaled through his nose a bit more forcefully than usual. _What if I just? Learned Sindarin?_  

Thranduil replied in the like, his words truthful at least, if not comprehensible, before switching. "Please, Westron, for my secretary's sake," he said. Thorin glanced at Bard again, his gaze appraising this time. 

"Didn't know you took on humans, let alone human secretaries," he said, finally tearing his eyes from Bard to look back at Thranduil.

"He has a specific skill set," Thranduil replied ominously, and Bard snorted. This, of course, had the unintended consequence of making both Thorin  _and_ Thranduil stare at him. 

Bard shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry," he said, hoping fervently he wasn't breaching some major protocol or another, "it's just that you make me sound like an assassin, or something."

"Mm, well, I'm sure you could manage with your bow, if you're as good as you say," Thranduil said, tilting his head in such a way that his words were somehow turned into a jab at Thorin. Somehow. Bard didn't really understand how that worked; nor, for that matter, the sincere truthfulness that accompanied the words.  _Does Thranduil actually think I'd be able to be an assassin...?_  

"Wait, bow?" Kíli said suddenly, looking at Bard with puppyish excitement. "You're an archer?"

"Kíli, now is very much not the time," Thorin said, and Kíli sobered up quickly. Thorin then inclined his head at Thranduil. "But very well, Westron it is."

"Thank you," Thranduil said, his tone neutral. He pulled out a chair and sat down, waving at Bard to do the same. Kíli and Fíli had at some point migrated over to the other side of the table and were soon sitting down on either side of Thorin. "Now then, please do explain why you called me here."

"Trust me," Thorin said, leaning forward. "If I had any other choice, you wouldn't be here."

"Oh, I know," Thranduil replied, suddenly taking extreme interesting in his nails. Thorin grit his teeth, taking a deep breath. Bard remembered with a start what he was supposed to be doing, and quickly pulled the stylus out of the tablet, beginning to wiggle the pen between his fingers. 

"Smaug is _back_ ," Thorin finally said, every word singing with truth. Bard 'accidentally' let the stylus hit the tablet once, wincing slightly when Fíli shot him a look. Thranduil didn't say anything for a good fifteen seconds. 

"Smaug never truly left," he finally replied, his face still and emotionless.

"Don't misinterpret my words,  _elf._ Smaug is back for business and he means to tear my company apart—again, might I remind you. And your company as well, this time." Bard tapped his stylus once again.

"How do you know? And why are you telling me?" Thranduil shot back, seemingly unperturbed. 

"We've seen the signs. For one, Urulóki Corporation's stocks have shot way up—"

"I'm sorry, but I fail to see how that's relevant," Thranduil interrupted, and Thorin glared something fierce. 

"Who but someone like Smaug would invest in Urulóki?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could think of several off the top of my head."

"I'm sure."

"About five government agencies, for starters. Please tell me you have something more substantial for me to waste my time with."

Thorin sneered. "Does it not concern you, then, how fast the lands east of the city are being bought up? None display a 'sold' notice, they're merely taken off the market. Millions upon millions of dollars are being sunk into that land." Bard tapped twice at the last part.

"And how, pray tell, do you know that is Smaug's doing?" Thranduil said, leaning forward. "You are grasping at  _straws,_ Thorin. This could be Smaug, but it could also be any millionaire seeking to develop land! There's enough of them in Dale, anyways." _  
_

Thorin slammed his fist down on the table, making everyone except Thranduil jump or twitch. "No it's  _not!_ It is  _Smaug,_ " he said, his voice rising slightly. 

Thranduil raised his voice just a touch above Thorin's. "You have no proof, merely conjecture!" Bard had stopped fidgeting with the stylus, and instead exchanged a helpless look with Fíli as both Thorin and Thranduil stood up.

"You won't shut up and  _listen—_ "

"You continue to present no  _evidence—_ "

"If I could get a Mahal-damned  _sentence_ out—"

"Like it would even  _help_ if you  _did_ —"

"Oh, dear, is this a bad time?" asked a voice from the doorway. Both Thranduil and Thorin shut up and turned to stare at the newcomer, who looked at them all rather concernedly over a gigantic plate of food in their hands. 

"Nope!" Kíli hastened to say, sounding rather desperate. "Perfect timing!" _True._  

The newcomer nodded once, then walked over to the table, laying the plate of food down and pulling out a stack of napkins from in between two peaches. "Well? Aren't you going to introduce me?" they said, giving Thorin a pointed look. Much to Bard's surprise, Thorin averted his eyes, and then cleared his throat. 

"This is Bilbo Baggins. He's my—" Thorin exchanged a glance with Bilbo, then said "advisor," at the same time Bilbo blurted out "friend". Bard regarded the two curiously—both statements had been true, but Bilbo's seemed moreso than Thorin's. Both Thorin and Bilbo cleared their throats, and Fíli and Kíli snickered. 

"Right, well, I'm terribly sorry about interrupting what I'm sure was an  _extremely important_  shouting match, but I figured you could use some refreshments, perhaps soothe your throats a bit before you go back to snapping at each other's necks," Bilbo stated dryly. Bard already liked him. "Now," Bilbo continued, assured that everyone was paying attention to him, even Thranduil, "I've got a variety of fruits here—the nectarines are particularly tasty right now, just so you're aware—as well as these three types of bread, and a few different cheeses here, please help yourselves. And for Eru's sake, Kíli,  _how_ many times have I told you to use napkins?" 

Kíli winked at Bilbo, his cheeks already stuffed with bread and cheese and his scruffy beard full of crumbs. Bilbo sighed, but he was smiling, and even though Bard had known Bilbo for all of two minutes, he could tell that the hobbit—there was really nothing else Bilbo could be, given his height and lack of beard—was fond of Kíli.  _And Fíli and Thorin, it would seem_. Bard smiled kindly as Bilbo held out the plate to him, selecting an apricot. 

Even Thranduil took something (grapes—why was Bard not surprised at all). Bilbo called Tauriel over as well, and she joined their impromptu indoor picnic, which was made all the better when Bilbo bustled away for a minute and returned with coffee and tea for everyone. A quiet calm seemed to settle in the room, and they (with the exceptions of Thranduil and Thorin, both of whom seemed to be too busy brooding to pay much attention) engaged in gentle conversations about the weather and other smalltalk topics, which Bilbo was an expert at leading out into engaging dialogue. 

After what was probably a decent forty-five minutes, during which Bard had learned that Fíli and Kíli were both university students part-timing at Durin and Sons and Bilbo had a young nephew whom he loved to death, Bilbo saw fit to begin packing up. He left quickly, but not before throwing a warning glare at Thorin along with a reminder to "play nice". Bard tried his best to stifle a chuckle at that, as it was the same phrase he'd told his own kids for years. A comprison which, when he thought about it, was rather apt for Thranduil and Thorin. 

 "What I still do not understand is why you have summoned me here," Thranduil began, his fingers interlaced and resting on his knee. 

"Because," Thorin said, in an equally calm tone of voice, "Based on what we know or have inferred—" here Thorin held up a hand to forestall anything Thranduil might say, "—Smaug has been buying up these undeveloped land plots, in preparation for something big. Surely you remember how much damage one such as Smaug can do," Thorin said, causing Thranduil to twitch slightly. Bard had the distinct feeling there was an entire second layer to the conversation that was going completely over his head, but then again—he was only there to ascertain truth, not interpret people's monologues. "And you know he wants spectacle. And who can provide that if not Greenwood, currently the largest green-energy name on the market?"

"I don't follow," Thranduil replied, voice flat both in tone and in truth. 

Thorin let out a frustrated sound. "Smaug is planning something. He wants to take us out to finish off what he started all those years ago, and he wants to take  _you_ out because we're no longer big enough to fit on the map." Bard hurried to pull out his stylus, tapping it twice before Thranduil could speak again. It wasn't that Thorin wasn't telling the truth—it was that he was describing events too murky and uncertain for them to be ironclad just yet. Or ever, Bard hoped, a pang of anxiety going through him as he processed Thorin's words fully.  _  
_

Thranduil stayed silent for a moment. "And what do you want from me?"

"An assurance of help. Against Smaug." One tap. 

"I will consider it."

"You will consider—!"

"Yes, I will consider it. Listen to yourself, Thorin. You call me here with a name I despise, then present to me only conspiracies and evidence that sound more fit for three-year-olds than the heads of companies. You want an assurance from me—no doubt in writing—to come to your aid in the event of this shadowy occurrence,  which is ill-defined in the best case scenario. To overcaution though I might tread, this is paranoia! You will forgive me if I don't jump at the chance."

Thorin glared, stony-faced. "If you won't help us—if you will damn us once more—then leave my sight!" 

"And maybe I will! Come on, Bard," Thranduil said, standing up and storming out, making sure to give his robes a distinct flair. Bard followed a few seconds later, pausing to push in both his and Thranduil's chairs. Thorin was glaring at Thranduil's back, and Bard had another flashback to Bain and Sigrid when they'd been younger and constantly fighting. He sighed. Tauriel followed him out of the office, waving and shutting the door softly behind her. None of them talked as they made their way back to the cars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i realized i never mentioned it before, but just in case you haven't caught on yet--all the chapter titles are english idioms, which i take from [this website](http://www.learn-english-today.com/idioms/idioms_proverbs.html) and i generally try to relate each idiom to what happens in the chapter proper... some times more obviously than others ;P  
> 2\. summer job is long days and taking it out of me but i'm hoping ~~i say this every time i'm so sorry~~ to _actually_ finally be able to get my shit together now that i've gotten into the groove of things  
>  3\. i love dís. fight me.  
> 4\. the head tilt thranduil does is the one he gives legolas when he says "there was nothing more me could tell ME" in DoS :D  
> 5\. urulóki corp specializes in--to no one's surprise--weaponry  
>  ~~6\. will proofread in approx. 18 or so hours--for now, i just wanted to get the chapter out, i hope you'll forgive me any typos ^^;;;~~ EDIT: proofread! Hopefully no typos left...


	10. Take it Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"When you relax, or do things at a comfortable pace, you take it easy."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I... actually stick to my schedule?? :O

Tauriel and Bard followed Thranduil back to the cars in silence. Tauriel went to her own car, and Bard accompanied Thranduil. A stormcloud seemed to have settled over the elf's face, even moreso once he removed the little circlet and stored it back in its box.

He didn't talk, not even to make a comment about a crash that left them floating in place for a good ten minutes, while stay pieces of wreckage bobbed gently past them on the wind.

"So," Bard finally said, breaking the silence. Thranduil looked up at him, seeming a mix between surprised and annoyed.

"So?"

"You were lying to Thorin. Those last words. About not jumping at the chance and 'considering it'."

Thranduil didn't say anything, merely staring at Bard for a few seconds, before turning his head and staring out the window at the unmoving scenery.

"Who is Smaug, and why are you so scared of him?"

"I'm not—"

"Thranduil," Bard interrupted, shooting Thranduil a glance that Bard usually saved for Tilda when she was misbehaving. "You literally hired me based on the sole fact that I can tell when people are lying. That includes you." Dimly, in the back of his mind, Bard wondered whether being so upfront was a good idea. _Well, too late to take back now._ "So… if you could just drop this whole thing about you needing to be invincible or whatever, that'd be great."

Thranduil ducked his head, chastised. After a few seconds, he half-heartedly chuckled, looking very self-deprecating, and Bard decided he probably wasn't going to end up fired.

"I apologize, Bard," he said, not making eye contact. "I suppose I am too used to people being incapable of… of seeing through my lies. Please do not take it as a personal affront."

"I don't," Bard assured him, and finally Thranduil raised his gaze, looking at Bard and making him feel like his very soul was being seen into. Then Thranduil nodded, and looked away again. There was another moment of silence between them, before Bard spoke up again, realizing that Thranduil would not offer up the information of his own accord. "So, Smaug?"

Thranduil sighed, and shifted in his chair, coming to rest with his hands intertwined on his lap, staring fixedly at his fingers. "Smaug… Smaug is a dragon," Thranduil said, completely truthful. Bard furrowed his brows. The car started moving again, surprising the both of them, but then Thranduil nodded, more to himself than to Bard. "Smaug is a dragon, progeny of one who did me and mine great ill. He was involved in the fall of Durin and Sons, as well, and is notoriously… he used to be very opposed to the measures Greenwood puts forth, in terms of attempting to protect the environment on top of producing high-end technologies…"

Thranduil tapered off for a moment, looking at his hands, though his eyes were focused somewhere far away. "In any case," he said a few seconds later, "Smaug hasn't been heard from in nigh on sixty years, and most, myself included, believed him dead."

Bard hummed in acknowledgement, but left Thranduil to his own devices. A few minutes later they arrived back at Greenwood, the car sliding smoothly to a stop right in front of Galion, who opened the doors.

Thranduil stepped out first. "Galion, please tell Feren to cancel any other appointments I have today, and reschedule them for a later date." Galion nodded, and Thranduil turned to Bard as he, too, emerged from the car. "Bard, you are welcome to leave, I have nothing else planned for the day, and much to think upon." Before Bard could reply, Thranduil swept away, disappearing into his elevator.

"That bad, was it?" Tauriel said, causing Bard, too caught up with wondering just how much more Thranduil had upon which to think to notice her arrival, to start.

"Looks like it."

Galion began to drive the cars away in the meantime, towards their more permanent parking, or at least so Bard assumed.

"Well, looks like you're done for the day. Come, we can take a different elevator to the front and avoid bothering him," Tauriel said, gesturing vaguely towards the room at large.

"…alright." Bard shot one last glance at the doors Thranduil had disappeared behind before following Tauriel.

Bard left Greenwood a few minutes later, wondering if he would ever actually have to work a full day (not that he minded getting to leave early, but it almost felt like he was cheating his already ridiculous paycheck). Even by the time he got home, it was only ten minutes before one o'clock, though a bit warm.

Bard opened most of the windows in his apartment, then went to his room and changed into his more usual clothing. He wrangled himself a quick lunch of sandwich and coffee, and then went to grab his bow and arrows. He was almost out the door before he remembered that Sigrid had violin lessons later, so he stopped to write her a note, which he taped to the door.

> _Hey Sigrid (+ Bain & Tilda), _
> 
> _Hope you all had a good day at school. There's still some cookies in the Tupperware on the counter. I'm out shooting, you know where to find me if you need to—or, just call. Go ahead and take the car when you need to, but be sure to lock up the house._
> 
> _Love, Da_

Satisfied, Bard left, taking the usual path down to the woods and quickly losing himself into the steady, soothing rhythm of draw-aim-fire, only breaking from it to collect his arrows. The tenth time he did so—or maybe it was the fifteenth? He wasn't too sure anymore—he returned to his starting point and was greeted with Bain, who walked up and gave him a brief hug.

"Hello, da," he said.

"Hi, Bain. What bring you out here?"

"Tilda and Sigrid were about to leave, so I decided to come find you." Bain wasn't being completely truthful, but Bard let it slide.

"Is it already that late?"

"Yeah, it's almost four thirty."

"Oh, wow. Would you mind if we headed back?"

"No," Bain replied, truthful this time.

"So," Bard said, re-arranging his arrows more neatly and unstringing his bow. "How was school?"

"Eh, the usual. Meaning it sucked. I hate school."

"Ah. Anything in particular, or just a general hatred?" They began to walk back along the path, following it through the forest and towards the apartment.

"Just in general. And, well, we also had a history test today…"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. I kind of… forgot about it."

Bard snorted. "How d'you think you did?"

Bain shrugged. "Dunno. But that was first period, so then the rest of the day was crap by default."

Bard reached over and rubbed Bain's shoulder. "Ah, don't worry about it too much, it was just one test. Even if you didn't do alright, it's still the beginning of the school year, you can make it up."

"Yeah, I hope…" Bain muttered darkly.

"I know so," Bard said, shoving as much conviction into the phrase as he could muster. Bain grumbled for a bit, but then brightened up.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot, me and Eómer and Damrod and a few others were talking at lunch, do you think your boss is hot?"

"I—what?" Bard said, sputtering. Of all the places he'd been expecting the conversation to go, this was definitively _not_ one of them.

"Your boss. Everyone says he's super pretty and stuff, even the straight guys. So I wanted to ask what you thought, since you work for him and stuff."

"Uh," Bard said, at a complete loss for words. They entered the apartment building, and Bain pressed for the elevator. It dinged before Bard had come up with a suitable answer. "I mean." It also didn't help that Bard was unable to discern Bain's motivations—not quite a truthful request, but also not a lying one, and maybe he thought Thranduil would probably definitely qualify as pretty but was that really something he needed to share with Bain? "He's a very aesthetically appeasing elf, yes," Bard eventually settled on.

Bain smirked as they arrived on their floor. "You could have just said 'yes', you know."

"No," Bard said, because he very much didn't know. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing," Bain replied, once again treading the grey area between truth and lie. Bard grumbled, this time. They reached the door, and Bard saw a note taped to the front. For a moment, he thought it was the same one he'd left, but then he began reading.

> _Dear Da,_
> 
> _I took Tilda with me, she said she wanted to see Helga's puppy again. Bain has the keys._
> 
> _-Sigrid_
> 
> _P.S. You didn't have your phone with you, it was sitting on your desk._

Bard patted his pockets. True enough, his phone wasn't there, but neither were his keys. _Uh-oh._ He turned to Bain, who was waiting impatiently.

"You wouldn't happen to have your keys on you, would you?" he asked. Bain frowned, shaking his head. "Thought so," Bard said. "Well, I forgot mine, too. Can you get the spare that's under the mat for me? My hands are full." Bain's frown vanished, replaced by a very sheepish look.

"Um, I don't actually think I can…"

Bard narrowed his eyes. "And why is that?"

"Well, last week when you were out and Sigrid was out, I had to use it, and I may or may not have accidentally taken it inside with me… I meant to put it back, I swear I did!" Bain said, raising his hands in surrender. His words were true though, and Bard couldn't bring himself to be angry.

"I guess we're just going to have to wait, then," he said, making to sit down.

Bain groaned. "Daaaaa, they _just_ left, it'll be an hour at least!"

"Neither of us have keys, Bain."

"You could just go around back," Bain said, rocking back onto his heels. Bard regarded him for a moment. 'Going around back' was a method of entering the house that involved, among other things, jumping down from the apartment balcony/roof area and onto an unprotected ledge some twenty-five meters into the air and climbing in through a window. "Pleeeeeaaaaase, da?" Bain begged.

Bard sighed. "Alright, fine. But only," he said, handing his bow and quiver off to Bain, "because I'm thirsty."

"Sure, da."

"Don't let my stuff get broken."

"I won't."

Bard ruffled Bain's hair, then walked back the way they'd come. Next to the elevator, on the nearby wall, was another door, one that led out to an open space where the whole sixth floor sometimes held floor barbeques. It was a mix of roof and balcony, with plenty of open spaces but also the occasional air vents and heating system boxes jutting up onto it.

One side, as it happened, curled around the elevator, then cut off, right before it met the actual apartment building. Bard leaned over, looking down. 

Through some fluke of engineering, a small ledge had been built onto the same side of the building that Bard's apartment was on. It was a good four feet lower than the roof/balcony, and didn't have a guardrail, merely a precipitous drop onto the nearby road. It was for that reason that Bard had expressly forbidden his children from ever using that route. He, of course, had no such qualms—it was convenient, and that was that.

He twisted himself over the roof/balcony's short guardrail, then dropped down onto the ledge, his fingers still holding the guardrail tightly until he gained his balance. Then Bard let go and turned cautiously around until he was facing away from the balcony. He began walking, one hand running along the wall as he pressed his body as close to the building as he could without tripping, and eventually he made his way to the first window—which just so happened to be at shoulder height, and also the window to his room, which, thank Eru Ilúvatar, he'd opened earlier (once he'd come around to find the window closed, and then he'd had to use a pocketknife to wriggle the latch of the window open—not an experience he wanted to repeat anytime soon).

Bard hoisted himself up, lurching through the window and falling to the floor with an undignified thump. He groaned. Then the doorbell rang, and Bard sighed, hefting himself to his feet before opening the door for Bain.

"You live!" Bain said, shoving Bard's bow and arrows back at him. "Congratulations!"

Bard raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, I think."

"Don't mention it," Bain said with a smile, retreating to his room. Bard shook his head and smiled, then went back to his own room and put his gear away. He wandered around the house for a little bit, quite unused to having so much free time—if he wasn't out job hunting, then he was either working or working off steam with his bow, but he'd done both today and there was still a half an hour of time before dinner had to be made.

He eventually settled for sitting on the couch and reading the news on his phone. He caught up on all the world happenings of the day (the Iron Hills Conglomerate had apparently issued a statement saying that they were planning on going through with a mining project; the reporter said Greenwood & Co. had been unavailable for comment), and before he knew it Sigrid and Tilda had returned.

Bard greeted Tilda while Sigrid went to put her violin away, then kissed her forehead as well.

"Sorry for forgetting my phone," he said, and Sigrid huffed.

"He forgot his keys, too!" Bain called from his room, and Bard shot that direction a dirty look that had Sigrid smiling in amusement.

"Well, just make that yummy pasta for dinner and we'll call it even?" Sigrid said, grinning exaggeratedly.

"I suppose I could manage," Bard answered. "So, how was school, both of you?"

"Fun!" Tilda said. "But Mr. Maitimo gave us lots of math homework."

"Did you do it?"

"No."

"Tilda," Bard sighed.

"I don't _like_ math."

"You don't have to _like_ it, you just have to _do_ it."

"Enjoy it now while you can, Til. It only gets worse," Sigrid said, nodding solemnly. Bard tsk'd at her.

"Sigrid, really?"

"It's true!"

Bard sighed again. "Tilda, please go do your homework now, it's almost suppertime."

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiine," she said, dragging her feet as she walked slowly back to her room.

"Did you _have_ to tell her that?"

Sigrid shrugged, smiling. "She deserves to know the truth."

"I'm sure," Bard said wryly. He shook his head, but began to move about the kitchen, gathering the ingredients for the eclectic pasta sauce that Sigrid so loved. "Terrorizing fifth graders aside, how was your day?"

"We found out about the play!"

"Oh, did you really now? What is it?"

"It's called _Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat_ , it's based off that one story. I think it was originally a musical but we're just going to be speaking it through for the competition."

"Any good, you think?"

"I hope so… I guess we'll see once the casting gets announced. If they cast the right people, this could be really good, otherwise I don't think we'll stand a chance, but whatever."

"I see."

"Yeah. I think I'm going to try out for the lead female role, hopefully I'll get it."

"Well, you're a senior this year, and also an excellent actress, so I don't see why not," Bard reasoned, adding some more spices to the pan he was sautéing mushrooms in.

Sigrid rolled her eyes. "You're my dad, you're obligated to say that, so it doesn't count."

"Whatever you say. Would you mind setting the table? I'm about to throw the pasta in."

"Sure thing, da."

Sigrid set the table and went to call her siblings, while Bard finished cooking the pasta and the sauce, doling out the appropriate portions to each plate before bringing them over. He also brought a loaf of bread, and set to work slicing it while his kids slowly emerged from their rooms.

Dinner was a lively affair, with much banter and discussion as everyone revealed different parts of their days in sections of small anecdotes rife with interruptions from others. Bard smiled the whole way through, glad to his core to be able to enjoy dinner with his kids once again. After dinner, Bard let them go and did all the cleaning himself.

He helped Bain work through an essay, and then read some stories to Tilda, before putting her to bed. Sigrid was focused on a textbook in the living room, chewing absently on the back end of a pen, so Bard decided to leave her alone. He went to his room, glancing at his phone for a moment.

The half of him that had probably been responsible for his answer to Bain earlier that evening eventually won the internal struggle, and he picked up the phone, sending out a quick text.

> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 21:49_
> 
> _Anything specific I should be wearing for tomorrow?_

Bard put his phone down, changing into his pajamas in the meantime. When he was done, a reply was already waiting for him.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 21:51_
> 
> _No, nothing in particular. Wear whatever you prefer._

Bard grinned, unable to pass up the chance.

> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 21:51_
> 
> _WHATEVER I want?_

While he was waiting for a reply, Bard sat down on his bed.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 21:51_
> 
> _…maybe not WHATEVER…_
> 
> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 21:52_
> 
> _Because let me tell you, I still have some clothes from my mechanic days…_

Bard snickered as he received the reply.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 21:52_

_If you come tomorrow dressed in anything bearing even so much as the tiniest stain of motor oil, I will not hesitate to divest you and burn the offending clothes in question._

Bard laughed, until he reread the message and noticed something.

> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 21:53_
> 
> _Did you just threaten to strip me?_

Bard's fingers hit send quite without his consent, and Bard stared for a moment. He was in the process of typing 'I didn't mean for that to sound like that, sorry' when his phone buzzed, and Bard opened Thranduil's new message.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 21:53_
> 
> _No, I threatened to burn your clothes. I do believe you're focusing on the wrong aspect of my statement, here._

Bard frowned, trying to decide whether Thranduil was being playful or serious. He was about to type up a suitable reply, when his phone buzzed again.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 21:53_
> 
> _By the way, Legolas told me he received the title of his play today._

Bard smiled, relieved.

> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 21:54_
> 
> _Nice change of topic. But so did Sigrid. She said hers is called "Joseph and the Magical Coat" or something similar._

The reply took a bit longer in coming, this time, and Bard wondered if somehow he'd misspoken.

> _From: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Received today, 21:56_
> 
> _Legolas' is called "The Birds". It's an ancient comedy, I believe. In any case, I bid you farewell for the night, for my TV show calls. Sleep well, and don't wear greasy clothes if at all possible._

Bard told himself stubbornly that he wasn't disappointed. 

> _To: Thranduil Oropherion  
>  Sent today, 21:57_
> 
> _Goodnight :)_

Bard set the alarm on his phone again, then rolled out of bed and went to check up on all his kids. Tilda, predictably, was already fast asleep. Bain, surprisingly, was doing the same, and only Sigrid remained awake, still studying.

"Hey, Sigrid, don't stay up too late."

"I won't. Just gotta study for the chem test tomorrow."

"Ah, best of luck with that," Bard said, grimacing. Chemistry had never been his favorite subject when he'd been Sigrid's age.

"Thanks, da."

"Night, love."

"Goodnight."

Bard then went to bed, and dreamed of dragons the size of alpacas and alpacas that breathed fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. tell me if thranduil's explanation makes enough sense, i rewrote it about three times and by that point i lost the capacity to tell if it only made sense to me because I was the one writing it or...  
> 2\. bard, though a good dad, is a sometimes forgetful one  
> 3\. yes, that would be Maedhros as an elementary-school teacher. fight me.  
> 4\. i asked my friend who was in theater for some competitive play titles. i'm using what she gave me... also we're just gonna say that there's various religions and not everyone believes in the valar, okay? :DD


	11. For the Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you think something is for the birds, you consider it to be uninteresting, useless, or not to be taken seriously."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible liar when I said I'd update soon, I know, I'm sorry... I have no excuses...

Bard's alarm rang three times before he could bring himself to get out of bed. He stumbled quickly towards the kitchen, putting the coffee on just as Sigrid was finishing her shower. He went to rouse his other two, then prepared their breakfasts. Before Bard was really fully conscious, the kids were ready and out the door and Bard was left alone, staring into his depressingly empty coffee mug.

Really, where _had_ all the coffee gone?

A few seconds later he jolted, then rushed around the house trying to put himself together as best he could. Bard chose a shirt from the new additions in his closet, mindful of Thranduil's warning about grease, and put it on. Only just remembering to also latch on his ID bracelet—and downing the few sips of coffee left in the pot—Bard hastily ordered the kitchen before all but running out to the Barge.

The Valar were kind to him that morning and traffic was negligible, so Bard managed to pull into Greenwood's parking lot perfectly on time. He took a moment to breathe, looking at himself in the reflection on the Barge's window—his hair was its usual mess, his facial hair was starting to look more 'beard' and less 'scruff', and had the shirt really looked _this_ formfitting when he'd tried it on in front of the kids? Bard grimaced at himself and tugged the shirt down by the corner. It was too late to change clothes now, in any case, so he might as well deal with it. His straightened his hair a bit, sweeping it back, off his shoulders, before heading in.

He waved at Mileth as he entered, and she gestured him through the doors that separated the lobby from the back corridors with a smile. Bard traced the dark red vein of wood along the wall with his fingertips as he walked to the elevator. He pressed the 'up' button, and waited until a soft ding announced the doors' opening. Bard took a step forward before processing that someone was trying to step out at the same time.

"Oh, sorry," Bard said on reflex, half-stumbling back before realizing that the person in question was Thranduil.

"You're pardoned," Thranduil said, his smirk audible in his tone even as he raised an eyebrow at Bard (and Bard thought he saw Thranduil's eyes flick down and up). The yellow glow of illusion along the side of Thranduil's face seemed warmer, somehow.

"I thank you for your generosity," Bard quipped back. "However can I repay you?"

Thranduil made a noise that might have been a huffed laugh. "I don't think payment will be necessary. I'd actually hoped to find you here—it occurred to me that you've only seen half of my company, as we've only been on Lasgalen business so far."

"Erm, yes."

Thranduil nodded, seemingly more to himself than to Bard, and sidestepped Bard out of the elevator. Then he set off down the right-hand corridor, motioning for Bard to follow. "There is an appointment scheduled with Lothlórien this afternoon, and though you will most likely be unable to be of help, it wouldn’t do to leave you completely unprepared."

The honesty in his words was glaring, but Bard still frowned. "Unable to help?" he asked as they began to descend a flight of stairs.

"Yes. Not through any fault of your own, you must understand," Thranduil added quickly, "but the owners of Lothlórien are simply too quick to let any such subterfuge pass. Other than that, they are actually some of the most reasonable elves I have ever had the pleasure of working with… and additionally, I am the one selling, rather than buying, in this case."

"Selling?"

Thranduil nodded, then opened the door at the base of the stairs with a self-satisfied smirk. He tilted his head for Bard to step through into the pitch-dark room. Bard raised an eyebrow, but complied, feeling the familiar tingle of guarding magic passing over him. Thranduil stepped in close behind him, and turned the light on with a flick of his fingers.

The room was smaller than Bard had been anticipating, though his entire apartment could still probably have fit inside it. There were rows of low-lying tables filling up the space, a soft blue glow emanating from their undersides, which provided the only light source. The dim light shone on a few scattered chairs here and there, but for the most part the spaces between tables were empty. Then Thranduil walked over to one of the low tables and flicked a switch on its surface.

There was a brief flash as a thin white stripe of light lit up on the border of the table's surface, then dimmed again.

"Come closer, I'll show you what Greenwood does," Thranduil said. Bard stepped closer, still looking about in confusion at the whole setup. 

" Okay…"

Thranduil placed his hand on the edge of the table. "Open file: Gwaemaer." Bard watched as a ripple of light blue extended out from where Thranduil's hand was touching the table. His eyes widened as the table literally sprang to life, a complex hologram popping up above it. Bard stared at it for a few seconds, then turned to Thranduil, who was looking at him with a faint smile on his face. They said nothing for a few seconds, merely gazing at each other; then Thranduil gave a little cough.

"Well?" he asked, looking away from Bard and at the hologram. Bard turned back to the hologram as well.

"Erm… to be completely honest, I don't know what that is, but this whole setup is… cool," Bard finished, wincing internally. 'Cool' had _not_ been the word he'd wanted to use. Not that he knew a better one (awesome? Fantastic?), but still.

Thranduil huffed. "Just cool?"

"Erm, that is—"

"I'm just kidding, Bard," Thranduil said, and Bard saw he was smiling. "Here, touch it," he added, completely serious, his tone giving nothing away.

"What?"

"Go on."

Bard grimaced at Thranduil, but in the end did as he was bid. He stretched his fingers out to the hologram, which was floating just around his head level. Just as soon as he touched the light, his fingers went through it, the points where the light hit filled with tingling, as if his fingers had fallen asleep. Bard withdrew his hand sharply, and the hologram ghosted a bit in his hand's direction before snapping back to where it had been originally.

Bard shot a glance at Thranduil, who looked like he was holding back a laugh.

"What was that?" Bard asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Watch," Thranduil replied, and then he reached out with both hands. Once they were near the hologram, he made a 'ka-boom' motion, and the hologram expanded, details filling in. Bard still had no idea what it was, though a small label that had popped up underneath it now indicated that it was supposed to be at least five meters in diameter. Actually, come to think of it, it looked somewhat familiar…

"Is that an engine?"

Thranduil tilted his head, an even larger smile on his face now. "Close. It's actually a wind-powered generator." Then Thranduil moved his hands wider apart, and the hologram blinked, reappearing with several layers in different colors, all cocooned one inside the other. Thranduil grabbed on, dragging it down through the other layers with a finger and rotating it, so it faced Bard head on. "See, here's a propeller."

Bard stared at the contraption as it flickered lightly above Thranduil's fingers. Now that he'd been made aware of the fact, it did resemble a fan… or an air car's rotors, if it came to that.

"Huh," he said. "So then, if this is the propeller…" Bard leaned closer, examining the hologram, which he now realized were schematics. He'd had a brief stint as a mechanic back after graduating from secondary school, and though he'd mostly had to work with ground cars, he'd seen some of the other mechanics in the shop working on air cars, all of which were powered via propellers. This one was clearly different in ways Bard wouldn't be able to identify (other than size), but, if the same basic structure was the same… "Is this the… mm. The thing?"Bard asked, pointing at a yellow bit and twirling his finger in a circle.

Thranduil snorted.  "Yes, the thing," he said, raising an eyebrow mockingly. Bard stuck out his tongue.

"You know what I mean."

Thranduil chuckled at that. "Yes, I do. The generator shaft?"

"Sure," Bard said. "I have no idea what that green thing is, though."

"Ah," Thranduil said, pausing for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. "Well, you see…" he began, quickly launching into a long and illustrated explanation about blade angles and torque and a string of words that probably weren't Westron, all of which left Bard completely lost and out of his depth within minutes; Thranduil himself, however, merely continued on, growing more and more animated as he did so.

At some point—and he had trouble pinning down exactly when this was—Bard had stopped paying attention to the surely remarkable inventions and innovations he was being shown, and had focused instead on Thranduil. On the way his elven-white hair reflected in the holographic lights, and how he used his hands liberally as he talked, and how his eyes sparkled in such a way that it left him seeming more alive than usual, and how his voice was filled with honestly, words ringing clear and happy in Bard's mind.

It was somewhere during this time, as they moved on from a prototypic clean energy motor to (as far as Bard could tell) a photovoltaic device of some kind, that Bard realized that he would be content to listen to Thranduil speak so animatedly for as long as he were able to.

"—and, if this technology can be developed cheaply enough without the need to sacrifice quality, then we could see a marked improvement in the general environment in the few remaining wildlands of Khând, I would think—"

A loud knock on the door interrupted Thranduil. He blinked twice, looking thrown off, before he dropped his hands and scowled at the door, the hologram he's been holding apart collapsing back in on itself and reforming into a small, leaf-shaped disk.

The door opened, and Mileth and Tauriel walked in. Tauriel was dressed in her emerald and brown bodyguard uniform again. Mileth held out a tablet, and Thranduil took it, skimming it quickly.

"Sorry, Thranduil, I wouldn't have interrupted, but Celeborn called and asked if you could stop by earlier. I told him you would call him back."

Thranduil sighed, but nodded in acceptance, handing the tablet back to Mileth and pulling out his phone. "If you'll excuse me, Bard," he said as he dialed. When the line picked up, Thranduil began speaking in Sindarin. Bard tracked him for a moment, as Thranduil walked a few steps away, then looked back at Tauriel and Mileth, who had very clearly been exchanging a glance.

"How are things?" Bard asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, we're fine," Tauriel responded, smiling and truthful. Mileth nodded likewise.

"And for you?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Bard replied.

"Clearly," Tauriel said, winking.

"…what?"

At that, Tauriel and Mileth exchanged another glance, which Bard was unable to read. He looked between the two of them, but they refused to give anything away.

"It's not everyone that Thranduil brings to his workshops personally," Mileth finally said. Bard detected no trace of a lie, but there was still something he felt he was missing. Before Bard got a chance to pursue the subject, Thranduil returned.

"Well then," he said. "Bard, you and I will be visiting Lothlórien immediately. Tauriel, you'll follow, but I daresay Haldir will have something in mind for you. He was the elf that had the largest role in Tauriel's training," Thranduil added, addressing Bard's confused expression. "He likes to keep her on her toes, sometimes." Thranduil's tone of voice was flat.

Tauriel snorted, muttering something about Haldir and the cutting off of toes instead.

"Mileth, I'm sure you know there are things you could be doing other than haranguing my soothsayer," Thranduil said, his voice this time both truthful and annoyed. Bard was torn between shying away from the fact that Thranduil had seemingly openly referred to him as a soothsayer, and shying _towards_ the fact that Thranduil had prefaced that with the very truthful word 'my', which sent an odd shiver down Bard's spine.

"I'm not haranguing anyone, Thranduil," Mileth replied, coquettishly flat. Thranduil snorted.

"Go back to the front desk. I don't know who you left as your replacement in order to come gallivanting over here, but I don't trust them."

"It was—"

"Nor do I wish to know!"

"—Orelion."

"Hm. Could have been worse, I suppose."

"Shall I have Galion pull the car around to this exit?"

"Please, and thank you."

"My pleasure," Mileth said with a small bow, tapping onto her tablet as she turned and walked away.

Thranduil returned to the holographic table he and Bard had been using, closing the file and turning the table off. Then he motioned to a far wall, and Bard noticed the door there for the first time.

"The driveway is right through there, if we may," Thranduil said, leading the way. Bard and Tauriel followed after him. The door opened into an equally dimly lit tunnel, with wooden platforms running along both sides and a paved road down the middle. As Galion hadn't yet arrived with the car, Bard turned to Thranduil.

"How'd you get all that to work, anyways? So much magic must've been complicated."

"Oh, it wasn't magic," Thranduil said with a smirk.

"What, the holograms?"

"Mmhm. One of my engineers, Eredhon, is particularly skilled with technology. He devised the whole system; it's all mechanically and electrically driven." Thranduil's words were completely true, and Bard found himself having to rethink quite a bit of the last… however long they'd been in there.

Just then Galion arrived. He was driving Tauriel's car, Thranduil's following along behind on its own. Everyone filed into their respective cars, Tauriel dropped Galion off at a more central location, and then they set course for Lothlórien, which Bard learned was due south.

As was becoming standard, Bard and Thranduil chatted amiably the whole way, their conversation only breaking once Bard caught sight of Lothlórien itself.

To put shortly, it was a huge forest; and huge meant _huge._ One of the smaller trees probably stood taller than Bard's entire apartment, and several of them glowed with a magical aura powerful enough to put even Greenwood's _tirith-galadh_ to shame. As they neared, the cars dropped in altitude, and the remainder of their journey was passed under the golden-green canopy of the woods.

Bard, naturally, spent the entirety of it with his face plastered to the window.

They took several more turns, the trees growing ever larger as they proceeded inward, until finally the cars coasted to a stop next to a wooden platform, which seemed sung right out of the tree. Once they were still, a blond-haired elf opened the door, and Thranduil smiled at him.

"Le fael, Rúmil," he said, before launching into a string of Sindarin. At some point Bard heard his name, and assumed he was being introduced. Then Thranduil turned to Bard again. "Judging by the lack of Tauriel, she has already been taken away by Haldir, who so happens to be Rúmil's older brother. Rúmil, however, does not speak much Westron, so I hope you'll understand if he doesn't speak with you directly?"

Bard nodded, shooting Rúmil a smile, which was returned in full. Then Rúmil said something to Thranduil, who in turn translated for Bard.

"He will take us now to our hosts, they wait only a level below."

The stairs to the level below were not long, and perhaps that was a good thing, because Bard was starting to worry about the height combined with the distinctive lack of handrails about the place. Then Rúmil gestured them into a large, open room, in which two elves stood side by side.

These, clearly, were their hosts; they were both dressed in traditional elven clothing, one in pure white, the other in shades of silvery blue. The one in white's hair was yellow-gold, and seemed for all the world to actually be made of that metal.

"Well met, Thranduil," the one in blue said, inclining his head. Thranduil returned the gesture.

"The same, Celeborn. And to you as well, Galadriel," Thranduil said, nodding also to the elf in white. She was glancing at Bard out of the corner of her eyes, Bard could tell. Just then, of course, Thranduil decided to introduce him. "This is Bard Bowman, my secretary."

"Well met to you, Bard," Celeborn said, and extended a hand after the modern fashion of greeting. Bard shook it, then also Galadriel's when she came forward. Then Celeborn turned back to Thranduil. "To business, then?"

As Celeborn and Thranduil slipped into Sindarin, Galadriel turned her piercing gaze fully on Bard.

"Let's leave the two of them to their business, shall we? Come, walk with me," she said, her voice surprising Bard with its deepness.

Bard looked over to Thranduil, who met his gaze. Bard raised both eyebrows, a silent query for permission. Thranduil blink slowly, just barely inclining his head, and Bard took that as an affirmative.

Bard nodded, then turned back to Galadriel, who was smiling at him far more knowingly than their situation seemed to call for. Then she turned and began to walk away, and Bard followed.

She led him through several different pathways, and finally through the trees and to the ground floor; and though she ghosted along with sure feet, Bard found himself trying not to think too hard about how there weren't any handrails here, either, nor any window ledges to hold on to.

When they made it to the bottom, Bard took a moment to look around. They were nestled between the tall roots of a copse of trees, and all around them were benches of stone and moss, and a small stream that Bard could hear but not see. In the center of their little cleared stood a small pedestal, looking more like an ornate bird fountain than anything else.

Galadriel made her way over to one of the benches and sat down, gesturing to a space near her. Bard took the hint, and seated himself. Once he was settled, Galadriel regarded him closely, tilting her head. Quite suddenly, Bard understood all those metaphors about wolves and rabbits.

He was definitely the rabbit.

"Do you know what it means to be wizard-born?" she asked eventually, her gaze snapping elsewhere. Bard took a breath, releasing it slowly. Galadriel didn't seem to mind the wait.

"No," Bard answered. "Not really." He had heard the term before, and assumed it had something to do with those who could wield magic with their hands and minds as opposed to with tools—but he wasn't sure if that was correct, and besides, Galadriel was intimidating.

She looked over at him once again, humming softly. "You need not fear me," she said, words infused with truth; still, Bard was uneasy—had she just read his mind? "I cannot read minds, either; not in the truest sense. No wizard-born may do that. I am merely able to pick up… I suppose one would call it 'the gist of things'."

"Ah," was all Bard intelligently replied. So that, at least, explained part of the magic within Lothlórien—if a wizard-born was living in it, who knew what she got up to in her free time?

Galadriel nodded. Then a few moments passed in silence, before she spoke again. She didn't look directly at Bard, but rather spoke to the pedestal. "You are not wizard-born, yet you carry a powerful magic within you."

Bard blanched. Never before had someone been able to tell of his soothsaying on their own, without him either slipping up or revealing the fact. Just from his experience with bosses that weren't Thranduil, Bard knew his was a skill many would go to great lengths to acquire, and if people could read it on him… the thought sent Bard's stomach into a knot. He would use his skill for Thranduil, because the elf wasn't trying to take advantage of those who had less than he did, but others—Galadriel raised a hand, as if to bring Bard's unspoken litany to a halt.

"I do not know the specifics of your power—" _truth_ "—though I do hope you will confide in me. I see only that this power you hold is strong and innate." _Truth again._ When Bard didn't say anything, Galadriel continued on. "I assure you, your secret will be safe with me." As this last statement also rang true, Bard came to a decision.

"I'm a soothsayer," he said. "The kind that can distinguish truth from lies."

Galadriel seemed to digest this information, staring at Bard contemplatively as she nodded slowly. Bard once again felt distinctly like a rabbit.

"And how did Thranduil come to have one such as yourself in his employment? You do not seem altogether too willing to let others know about your power."

Bard shook his head. "I'm not. But the ad Thranduil placed in the paper was… my skills are perfect for that job. And I have three children to care for, and had just been let go elsewhere."

"Ah. Desperation."

Bard stiffened slightly. "Of a sort."

"I meant no offense," Galadriel said after a short pause, and her words rang true. "My apologies, for I have misspoken."

"No, there's nothing to apologize for. You were right, after all," he said, grimacing faintly. Galadriel gave him a soft smile.

"Nonetheless," she said, then turned her gaze upwards. Soon Bard turned his own gaze towards the canopy as well, looking at the leaves and how they overlapped and created dappled shade in stained-glass colors. They sat for several minutes in silence, only the burbling of the hidden stream and the chatter of birds to be heard in the background.

"Knowledge for knowledge, then," she suddenly announced. "A trade, if you will. You said you do not know much about wizard-borns?" Galadriel waited for Bard's nod before continuing. "To be wizard-born means to have a connection to the magic of the world a level beyond most. Elves are already more sensitive to the world's magic than most other races. For that reason, to be a wizard-born elf is rare." She looked straight at Bard, then, and for a moment, Bard fancied he could see fire burning in her eyes. Then she blinked, and the image faded, though Bard was still left a bit unnerved.

"There are also many different kinds of magic, into which one can be wizard-born into. There is, for example, the magic of the trees." Galadriel gestured to the forest around them. "In that I have the most skill, and our home is a reflection of such." Bard nodded. "But I was also born into the magic of seeing the future. A different kind of soothsaying," she said with a small smile.

Bard did not return it. Instead he frowned. "You can tell the future?"

Galadriel shook her head. "Nothing so certain. I see flashes of events that may come to pass, sometimes even strong premonitions, or else a memory of an event that could not have yet occurred…"

"Oh."

"Yes. And, along those lines, I wish to give you a gift, if you would be willing to accept it."

Bard's brows furrowed even further in confusion. "A gift?"

"Yes. The ability to speak to thrushes, as it were." That only served to confuse Bard even further—did they even _have_ thrushes around these parts?—but Galadriel held out a hand, motioning as if to touch Bard's forehead, and when he did not turn away, she pressed three fingers to his temple.

A rush of magic ran through Bard, running through him in repeated waves. He had no idea how long they lasted, but when Galadriel finally removed her fingers, Bard could feel himself trembling. He took a few moments to gather his breath and his thoughts. Galadriel, once again, seemed content to wait patiently until Bard had found words.

"I—thank you, but… why?" he stammered out a few minutes later, the last remnants of the magical waves still setting his hair on end.

Galadriel hummed a bit more, but took her time before actually replying. "Sometimes, Master Bowman, the future is best left untold." The truth to the statement—and her conviction behind it—almost left Bard lightheaded.

Galadriel was already halfway up the steps by the time Bard had processed what she'd said, and he hurried after her, slowing down once he reached a height he deemed too dangerous to fall from. Somehow, the ascent took less time than Bard remembered the descent taking, and soon they were back to where Celeborn and Thranduil had apparently just finished making a deal, both of them smiling genuinely. Tauriel, Bard noticed, was standing off to the side next to another blond elf, both of them seeming somewhat out of breath but otherwise content. The cars were hovering just off the platform.

"Ah, excellent timing," Thranduil said as he spotted Galadriel and Bard.

"I assume negotiations went well?" Galadriel enquired as she walked over to Celeborn and entwined her hand with his.

"Splendidly," he replied.

"Very well then, we must be going," Thranduil said. "Thank you for your hospitality and your business." Then Thranduil bowed, and Tauriel, who had in the meantime come to stand a few paces behind Thranduil, did likewise. Bard hastened to follow suit.

"Thank you for your obliging visit, and on such short notice. Safe travels."

"Thank you, and may the stars ever shine on your path," Thranduil said, opening the car door and letting Bard in, before clambering in himself. Tauriel was already in her own car.

"And yours as well," Galadriel called as the door closed.

As Celeborn and Galadriel waved them off and the car began to put distance between them and the docking platform, Bard thought he saw a small brown bird land on Galadriel's shoulder, but he couldn't be sure.

"Bard, are you alright? You see pale…" Thranduil's voice held a note of concern, and when Bard turned to look at him, the elf was sporting a slight frown.

"No, I'm fine," Bard hurried to say. "I just… had an interesting conversation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The file Thranduil opens, Gwaemaer, is me trying to cobble together the Sindarin words for "wind" (gwaew) and "useful" (maer), both taken from [Elfdict.com](https://www.elfdict.com/)
> 
> All the holographic tech is shamelessly ripped from Iron Man, I regret nothing. Also, Mirkwood Trash Squad shoutout :D
> 
> Lastly, I am interested in finding someone to beta this fic for me--not necessarily for grammar as much as for 'does this chapter make sense as a whole/is it cohesive with the rest of the story' (though obviously if you find grammatical/spelling errors, I'd appreciate having those pointed out to me as well :'D). I find that by the time I'm done actually writing a chapter, I'm so sick of rereading it that I am incapable of placing it into perspective any longer... anyways, if you'd be interested (updates aren't too frequent, ha) drop me a line over at [my tumblr](http://piyo-13.tumblr.com/ask) ^^


	12. Think Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you tell someone to think again, you advise them to reconsider the situation and perhaps change their decision."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, can it be! It is. Also a bit shorter than usual, but hopefully you'll understand why I cut it where I did ^^;;
> 
> And much thanks to [Hel](http://ravenschmaven.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading this for me ^^

Thranduil raised an eyebrow delicately. "Conversations with Galadriel are rarely _not_ interesting. What did she say, if you don't mind me asking?"

"She… I don't know, she knew I was a soothsayer, and then she said something about the future, and then she gave me… the ability to talk to thrushes?"

Thranduil's eyebrows shot up. "That she could tell you were a soothsayer aside, Galadriel is also not one to give gifts lightly."

Bard shook his head lightly. "Well, she only really knew I had some… some innate power, or whatever he called it, not what it was. I told her the specifics. But… thrushes?"

"Ah," Thranduil said, before leaning back in his chair and looking very contemplative. A minute or so passed of both of them lost in thought, before Thranduil spoke again. "They're a common enough bird in these regions, so I doubt you will be at a lack of conversational partners, if you decide to hone this new talent. Galadriel's powers of foresight are not unknown, at least amongst the elves, and if she gave you this gift, then I don't doubt there was a good reason for it… though, I admit, that does worry me a tad."

Bard snorted. "How do you think I feel? Super-powered elves giving gifts and telling you it might be useful in the future is all fairly ominous, you should know. And she was telling the truth the entire time."

Thranduil smiled lightly. "Galadriel does, also, possess a talent for theatrics. I wouldn't be inordinately worried about your future." His words were less truthful than Bard would have liked, but he accepted them anyways.

"You're probably right," Bard said, nodding slightly, even though he himself didn't feel altogether that assured.

"I am," Thranduil replied, his words managing to sound just that much more truthful, and full of conviction. Bard smiled thankfully. "But on to other topics," Thranduil continued, leaning forward. "As long as you promise not to pass word along to Sigrid."

Bard raised an eyebrow, smile widening. "I can't promise anything, especially not if it means Esgaroth actually has a shot at winning the competitive play this year."

Thranduil gasped theatrically, then dropped the act and waved a hand. "Legolas was just telling me about there being some drama amongst the actors. Apparently some poor lad named Théodred managed to break both bones in his lower leg…"

Bard whistled, and their conversation turned back towards their usual lighthearted chatter. Bard was grateful for it, and by the time they were back within Dale, he felt discernibly less unnerved by his meeting with Galadriel; if anything, he was looking forward to seeing how this new gift played out.

"In any case," Thranduil said as the aircar began to descend, "you're free to go home now if you wish, I have a meeting with Elrond for lunch, and nothing else scheduled for the rest of the day."

"Wait, Elrond as in Elrond Peredhil, the Chief of Police Elrond Peredhil?"

Thranduil smiled gamely. "Mmhm. I _did_ mention that I had a friend in the police force, did I not?" His voice was truthful, and Bard opened his mouth, only to close it again without actually saying everything. He shook his head slightly at Thranduil instead.

"Alright then. Out of curiosity, are you ever going to actually make me stay for a full day?"

Thranduil chuckled, then shrugged. "I guess we'll have to wait and see, won't we?" he said with a playful tone.

Bard smiled. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Thranduil smiled back as the car pulled to a stop. For a few seconds, neither of them moved, then Bard realized that Thranduil was going to lunch, and therefore waiting for _him_ to get out of the car before going on his way. He felt his cheeks heat up in a blush.

"Right, sorry. I'll be going, then." Bard—embarrassingly—fumbled a bit with the door before he managed to open it, and stepped out with relief. "Goodbye, have a good lunch," he added, before closing the door.

Thranduil waved from the window as the aircar took off again, Tauriel's car not too far behind. Bard stared after them for a moment, before heading inside. He waved goodbye to Mileth as he passed the front desk, and somehow managed to avoid the worst of the noonday traffic rush on his way home.

 

The next three weeks passed in a blur of altogether too many meetings and so many faces Bard had no idea how Thranduil kept track of them all—Bard had given up around the middle of week two. Incidentally, the middle of week two (just about) had also been when Bard had gotten his first paycheck.

He'd taken one look at the number listed and promptly ditched all decorum, calling Thranduil on his cell phone after hours and tried to correct the issue. Thranduil had, in turn, assured him that the number listed on the check was valid and correct, which had turned into Bard launching into a speech about not even working full days and too much money anyways and honestly, was Thranduil made of money or something?

To which, of course, the elf had answered yes, proceeded to threaten Bard with a raise if he didn't stop, all the while making sure Bard was well aware of how ridiculous the entire situation was. Bard gave in, then, but not without a fair amount of grumbling.

Bard had taken the kids out to dinner as a fancy restaurant that evening, after sending Thranduil a quick but no less heartfelt thank you text. It had been returned with a series of smiley faces, which had somehow escalated to actual conversations held via text message. Bard wasn't even altogether too sure what, exactly, they talked about, but talk they did, and Bard couldn't find it in him to stop.

A frequently rehashed topic during those conversations, however, was Thranduil's gratefulness to Bard for doing 'such a fantastic job as a human lie detector, I really couldn't ask for more'. The thanks only escalated in magnitude once Thranduil found out—after having to deal with a particularly lying set of men from Rhûn—that lies actually had negative effects on Bard on the physical level. Even though Bard had assured Thranduil that it really wasn't that bad, at most a mild stomachache or a faint headache, Thranduil insisted on hovering over Bard and providing him with any number of elvish head- or stomach-ache medications after meetings where there'd been a lot of subterfuge involved.

Bard found it kind of sweet, actually.

Bard had also, during that time, had his first few encounters with thrushes. The first time he'd been mid-draw when suddenly a bird had landed nearby and started up a conversation, and Bard had lost an arrow into the surrounding foliage. After his initial shock had passed (and he'd remembered that no, he wasn't going crazy, a wizard-born elf had just decided to give him a gift was all), and he'd made the thrush promise not to surprise him mid-draw anymore, he found they could have quite pleasant conversations together.

Granted, the thrush _was_ mostly concerned with the location of a plethora of insects whose names Bard hadn't known nor particularly wished to know before, but at one point the bird had offered up old feathers as use of fletching on Bard's 'flying branches'. The thrush had seemed rather proud of itself when Bard accepted the offer, and a few days later Bard ended up meeting about ten more birds, all of whom looked exactly the same to him.

At any rate, the end result was that after almost a full month of employment, Bard found himself enjoying this job like he had no other, probably due in no small part to the fact that he now considered Thranduil a good friend. It was with this thought in mind that Bard rolled over in bed and picked up his phone, turning off the alarm and checking his messages in one go.

He smiled faintly before typing out a reply to Thranduil's last message from the previous night.

> _To: Thrand (aka Bosself)  
>  Sent today, 07:01_
> 
> _No, you're wrong. Picard is the best Captain, I will fight you on this._

Then he rolled out of bed and began the usual morning routine. Luckily it was a Wednesday and not a Monday, so no one complained overly loudly as being woken up, especially not when Bard told them he'd gone shopping yesterday and bought Silmarilpuffs.

Bard smiled affectionately as he watched Tilda sort out her marshmallow bits by color before systematically eating them.

"How you eat that is beyond me," he said, glancing at both Bain and Sigrid as well, this time.

Bain hardly reacted, but Sigrid stuck her tongue out at Bard. "Just cause _you_ like eating horsefeed, da, doesn't mean the rest of us do."

Bard looked down at his bowl of oatmeal. "I daresay I eat better than a horse, I put sugar on top."

Sigrid rolled her eyes, Bain snorted, and Tilda finished her bowl. She went and set it on the counter, over the dishwasher, then went back to her room to get her stuff. Her siblings soon followed suit, and Bard was left alone at the table, spooning up the last of his sugared oatmeal and finishing his coffee along with it.

Soon enough they were all out the door, down to the bus stop, and Bard was left alone to finish his morning routine. Double-checking that he still had his ID bracelet on (he'd forgotten it once, not only had that been a nightmare but Mileth also hadn't let him forget it since), he grabbed his keys and phone and headed out to the Barge.

Unfortunately, Bard's good morning didn't last, and all the way to Greenwood, he hit not only every red light but also seemingly every spot of traffic it was possible to hit. By the time he actually arrived (late) at Greenwood's parking lot, his nerves were very much frazzled and the Barge's horn had seen more work than it had in a few years.

So, of course, that would be the day that someone stole Bard's parking spot. Bard doubled back, driving around the entire parking lot area twice just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. But no; there, in his parking spot—Bard pointedly ignored the fact that it was actually just visitor parking, and was therefore open to anyone, because he'd been parking there for an entire _month_ now, damnit, that was _his_ spot—was a huge navy blue car.

Bard grumbled the whole way down into the employee parking garage. By the time he'd parked there and made his way back to the entrance, he was a good twenty minutes late. Not that he was particularly worried that Thranduil would even so much as reprimand him, but it still irked him to be this late.

"Ah, Bard, thank goodness—you might want to head directly upstairs, Thranduil has… _company._ " Mileth said such with a flat face and an equally flat tone of voice as soon as she spotted Bard, waving him through with a touch less composure than she might usually have been said to have. Bard frowned in confusion and immediate concern.

"Right, I'll do that…" he said, picking up his pace down the hallway, and waiting impatiently for the elevator. He kept trying to come up with different scenarios, but there was very little coming to mind. Thranduil was usually more than capable of handling anyone who would visit, so the implication that he somehow _wasn't_ … that worried Bard.

Finally, Bard made it to Thranduil's office, and knocked loudly, though he opened the door without waiting for an answer. Then he froze.

Thranduil was standing behind his desk, every line of his body language reading aggression, though his face remained impassive. On the other side of his desk, back turned to Bard, was a dwarf, and unless Bard was much mistaken, that dwarf was Thorin. Tauriel was standing a few paces behind Thranduil, and Fíli and Kíli—if Bard was remembering their names correctly—were standing next to Thorin.

Thorin was busy shouting something, and Thranduil was busy clearly not listening. Tauriel shot Bard a glance, which Bard rather thought said 'help me, please', and Bard frowned further. He knocked louder on the door, and then raised his voice.

"Excuse me, I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

All three dwarves and Thranduil started, and Bard found himself the focus of four pairs of eyes.

"Oh, Bard, thank the Valar, I need someone _sane_ here with me," Thranduil said, truth in his voice overwhelming. Bard sighed internally as Thorin's stare turned into a glare, and he turned back to face Thranduil.

_This is going to be a long day…_


	13. Batten Down the Hatches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“When you batten down the hatches, you prepare yourself for trouble or a forthcoming difficult period, like a ship preparing for a storm.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unintended months-long hiatus... ^^;;; I promise this story will never be abandoned though, no matter how long passes between updates. In any case, without further ado, the chapter! 
> 
> And, of course, thanks to [Hel](http://ravenschmaven.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading this for me <33

"What's going on?" Bard asked, looking back and forth between Thranduil and Thorin. Thorin snorted.

"Well, you know, our place just got _bombed_ , and as I was saying before his majesty over here got all up-in-arms about it, we know it was Smaug's doing. And we've reason to believe Greenwood's next, so really all we're doing you in a fucking _favor_ ," he spat, glaring at Thranduil all the while. Thranduil looked offended, and Bard decided it was probably within his best interests to intervene. Again. Especially considering none of what Thorin had said was a lie—which, of course, only meant that Thorin himself believed it to be true, but that was already something.

"Okay, well, that seems pretty serious—"

"You bet your pretty ass it is," Thorin interrupted, and Bard tried not to dwell too much over the truthfulness of _that_ particular statement. Thranduil, for his part, sneered.

"You've come to me with these accusations before, Oakenshield."

"You—! Durin and Sons is _destroyed_ —" Then Thorin dissolved into a string of Khuzdul which caused his nephews to wince, and Bard looked to Tauriel for support. She half-heartedly shrugged, and Bard sighed internally. Then, mustering up as much of his experience-as-a-father-learned conflict-resolution skills as possible, he brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly.

Everyone turned to stare at him, for the second time in five minutes. Bard was already rather done with it all.

"Alright, Thranduil, you be quiet for five minutes, and Thorin, can you please explain _clearly_ why you think Greenwood's next." The staring continued for a few more seconds, then Thorin snorted again and held out a hand. Fíli—or Kíli, Bard wasn't quite sure—handed him a tablet. Thorin unlocked it and began scrolling looking for something.

Meanwhile, Thranduil made eye contact with Bard and rolled his eyes expansively, in a gesture that said 'get a load of this'. Bard gave him a flat glare, which Thranduil returned once he realized that Bard wasn't going to immediately take his side.

"Here," Thorin finally said, setting the tablet down on Thranduil's desk. Though he did so gently enough, Bard couldn't quite shake the impression that had it been anything other than a tablet, it would have gotten slammed into the dark wood as hard as possible.

As one, Tauriel, Thranduil, and Bard all stepped closer to look at whatever was actually on the tablet.

It was a photograph of what looked like the burned corner of a house, soot and ash strewn liberally about the place. The only spot that wasn't a dark, grayish-black was the center of a slab of stone, where the soot had been etched away in a pattern—to Bard, it even seemed somewhat like the rock below had also been carved into, so pale were the lines. He stared at them in confusion, not really managing to make sense of them, but Tauriel gasped and Thranduil blanched, and the illusion-glow on his face flickered and for a moment Bard thought he saw muscle and sinew where skin should have been.

Then the soft warm glow returned, and Thranduil's gaze shuttered back into emotionlessness. He straightened and Tauriel followed suit, but Bard continued to stare at the photo. The top portion… he couldn't be sure, but it looked… almost like antlers, actually.

Thorin tapped the tablet, causing the image to disappear, and then he picked it up and tucked it under his arm. Bard looked up, only to find that Thranduil was pacing behind his desk, three steps and then a turn. Everyone in the room watched him for a few seconds, save for Kíli—it had to be Kíli—and Tauriel, who were busy making faces at each other that apparently constituted some form of communication.

Finally, Bard stepped forward. "Thranduil?" he asked, grimacing slightly as Thranduil visibly startled. "What did that mean?"

Thranduil was silent for a moment, staring at the wall that led to his secret office. Then he spoke, his voice completely devoid of tone. "Let's go talk to Mileth."

Turning on his heel, he stepped neatly around his desk, Fíli, and Thorin in quick succession, and was soon out in the hallway. Fíli, Kíli, and Tauriel soon followed, and Bard fell into step with Thorin, closing the office door behind them as they left. Thranduil led them not to the elevator, but instead to a hidden set of stairs that he'd shown Bard sometime during the third week, which led to the break room directly behind the reception area.

As they walked down the stairs, Bard and Thorin still in the rear, Thorin snorted. Bard raised an eyebrow at him, and Thorin jerked his head in Thranduil's direction.

"Won't believe me this and won't believe me that, then suddenly I show him the proof and he doesn't even have the dignity to recant.

Bard rolled his eyes. "You couldn't have _started_ with the photo?" he asked, gesturing to the tablet still tucked snugly under Thorin's arm.

"He was being a royal prick!" Thorin said, and though his voice was truthful, he also wouldn't meet Bard's eyes. _At least the kindergarteners are self-aware_ , Bard mused, though he said nothing.

They reached the break room, and Thranduil led their small party imperiously through the space as several of his employees looked on in confusion. To their credit, not a one actually said anything, merely exchanging glances. A few nodded and smiled at Bard and shot him inquiring looks, but he could only shrug in response—Tauriel, he noted, was replying with quick, abortive shakes of her head.

"Mileth!" Thranduil called as he opened the back door of the reception area. Mileth looked as surprised as Bard had ever seen any elf look, her hands poised above her tablet, caught in mid-stroke. "Open the company-wide speakers, please."

Mileth did so immediately, and Bard heard a scoff as Thorin noticed.

"Flowers, Thranduil? As if working your lighting into plants wasn't enough, you have to make your speakers look like blasted _blossoms_?"

Thranduil only gave Thorin an icy glare in return. He turned back to Mileth, the ice fading somewhat but his gaze no less fierce. "Unless I'm much mistaken, Firith-dîn is in two days?" Bard had no idea what that meant, but Mileth nodded, and Thranduil nodded pensively back. "How would everyone feel about taking an extra two days off?"

Mileth opened her mouth without actually saying anything for a moment. Then she closed her mouth, and Tauriel interjected. "Thranduil?" she asked, her voice incredulous.

"Put me on speaker," he said, and Mileth handed Thranduil a flower, which bloomed as soon as he took it in hand, and pressed a button on her desk. He nodded at her, mouthing thanks, and then took a deep breath before speaking into the blossom.

And, of course, he proceeded to speak completely in Sindarin, to which Bard rolled his eyes. Despite working at Greenwood for a month and a bit, Bard's Sindarin was still dismal, and he barely caught every tenth word. Pleadingly, he waved a hand to grab Tauriel's attention, and raised his eyebrows. He hoped he didn’t look too pitiful. She nodded, and moved over to stand next to him.

"He's basically just announcing that we'll be having the rest of the week off—Firith-dîn is a traditional elvish holiday, the celebration of the coming of the fading season. Usually we get just the day, but…" she frowned. "He wants us all out of here." Her frown deepened, and Bard felt the way her words fell flat in the pit of his stomach.

Then Thranduil finished speaking, returning a once again closed flower to Mileth, who tucked it gently in a small vase. Thranduil busied himself with staring down his nose at Thorin, who stared but up just as fiercely.

"I hope this is an accurate photograph," Thranduil said, and his words rang very false.

"I assure you," Thorin all but snarled back, truthful to the core. "We'll be leaving now," Thorin added after a moment. He walked towards the side of the reception area, where it opened into the central hallway, and Fíli and Kíli followed.

"Thorin," Thranduil called, and Thorin stopped halfway out the door. "Where will you go?"

Thorin turned his head, appraising Thranduil out of the corner of his eye. "Ered Luin," he finally said, and then left, his short but quick stride making easy work of the lobby. Soon the three dwarves were gone, though Fíli did send one last worrying glance back over his shoulder.

"Was he telling the truth?" Thranduil asked, his eyes still fixed on the main entrance.

"Yes," Bard replied. Wherever Ered Luin was, that was where Thorin intended to go.

"Good. Now, Mileth, if you would be so kind as to call Feren, tell him he'll have to pick Legolas up after school—tell him it's a Code 4, he'll know what to do. Don't alert anyone else, though." Mileth nodded sharply, already reaching for the telephone. Thranduil stayed her with a raised hand. "You and Tauriel will also have to wipe Bard from all our public servers, public records… everything. If you need to bring in Lothling, do so, he knows how to keep his mouth shut as far as that's concerned—but make sure you _do_ tell him to, he's a bit absent. The most important thing is that no affiliations between us and Bard are found—it would paint a target on his back."

"If there isn't already one," Tauriel muttered under her breath, and for once the truth managed to chill Bard to the core.  His thoughts flickered quickly to his children, and it was only sheer force of will that had him remain steady instead of panicking.

"Move relevant data to the secure offline server—Tauriel, you know the one," Thranduil continued, as if he hadn't heard her at all. Both Tauriel and Mileth executed a short bow, fists held crosswise to their hearts. Thranduil did the same in return, though he inclined only his head. "Thank you."

Thranduil turned, motioning with a nod that Bard should accompany him. Bard waved slightly to the two elves, and followed Thranduil out, to the waiting aircar. That Tauriel's now wasn't following them seemed… odd.

One of the many things that had, today, quite frankly.

"Thranduil, what in the name of the Valar was that?" Bard asked, and winced a little. He hadn't meant to sound so aggressive. Thranduil either hadn't heard the tone, or just didn't care.

"I am sorry, Bard. Explanations will be forthcoming soon, but for the moment—I am headed to a safe house, some way from here, in order to get in touch with someone who might be able to help in this situation. You are more than welcome to come, if you so choose?"

There was truth in every one of Thranduil's words, even as he worded the last ones as a question. Bard wanted to say yes, he wanted so badly to say yes, especially when Thranduil finally met his gaze, and Bard saw a faint glimmer of hope. But—

"My children. If… if this is as serious as you say it is, I need to go pick them up. Keep them…" _safe, keep them safe_ , he wanted to say. But this was a _dragon_ , and one that had Thranduil scared—and in his month of employment, Bard had learned many things about his boss and friend, and one of them was that Thranduil? Didn't _do_ scared.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. "If you go fetch them now you will only draw attention to them. It would be prudent for you to wait until their school is out. I can call Galion, and arrange for him to pick up your three as well—"

"As much as I would like to accept that offer, I am going to have to inform you that Galion and even your _cheapest_ , _dirtiest_ company car would stand out like a sore thumb over at Dale," Bard said with a wry grin.

Thranduil looked shocked for a moment, then smiles wryly back at Bard. "Alright, you make a fair point. But in that case, the best thing to do would be to allow them to return home on their own time, don't you think?"

Bard grimaced. "I suppose. But I'm taking your car as soon as they're let out. Seeing as mine is, you know, in your company, which you sort of just shut down completely." Thranduil didn't say anything. "Unless I'm mistaken?"

"Hm."

"Okay, seriously, Thranduil, what is going on?"

Thranduil sighed and ran a hand through his hair, letting it fall silkily back into place. "It's a long story."

Bard spread his arms, gesturing widely to the inside of the car. "It's not like we don't have time while we go to this safe house of yours…"

Thranduil grimaced faintly, looking out the window for a few seconds before he answered.

"Very well, I will tell you, but… this is not a pretty story, you should know. Are you sure that knowing you and yours are potentially in danger by association with me is not enough?" Thranduil met Bard's eyes, serious, and his words both warmed Bard with truth and sent an ominous chill down his spine.

Bard didn't need long to consider, however. He nodded sharply. "I'd rather know what I'm getting into now, thank you, especially considering as my involvement seems to have been decided upon already…"

Thranduil nodded back, albeit more pensively. "Alright. In that case… about a hundred years ago, give or take—I'm sure you weren't yet born, but I was already well into my fifties—there was… a series of attacks. Personal vendettas, against a variety of beings; dwarves, elves, and men alike were all at risk.

"The culprits were dragons. Not all of them, but a small faction—led, incidentally, by Smaug, called The Terrible—they orchestrated these attacks for their own personal gain. It was during these attacks that Erebor—precursor to Durin and Sons—fell, originally; their building was burned to the ground, and many burned with it. As I understand it, much of their wealth was lost in that fire, too."

Bard frowned. "This was… before or after Thráin came to you?"

"Before. They were scarcely beginning the reconstructions, then… in confidence, mine was not the most charitable of actions, but I do believe I had my own reasons." Thranduil spoke the truth, but Bard doubted that Thorin and his nephews saw it the same way.

"So Erebor was destroyed…?"

"Yes. And many others besides; most have not rebuilt, though, and only a few wielded enough power for there to be any repercussion to their disbandment. Have you heard of Gondolin?"

Bard blinked. The name… sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. He shook his head.

"They were a famed record label, back in the day. But Smaug and his struck there as well, and removed it from the proverbial map."

"Why?"

"Ah, and so we come to the most interesting part of the tale; as I mentioned, these attacks were both of personal matters and also of… business. Gondolin was razed because it was built over a strategically important mineral deposit."

"Strategically important?" Bard parroted, feeling more and more lost as the explanation continued.

"For Smaug's then-company. But the crux of the matter is that they would always, always leave clues. We still haven't identified why—though, the investigation was dropped many decades ago, so perhaps that is not too surprising—but personally, I suspect it has something to do with their nature as dragons. These clues always pointed to their next planned victim; usually, a series of signs or symbols that implicated a figurehead, of a company or of a family or otherwise, and then an additional hint as to what punishment awaited them.

"Eventually, the police became quite adept at unraveling the clues, but at the time, everyone lived in fear of being implicated. Even when the potential victim was put under protection, the chances of them dying was… alarmingly high. Or at the very least, injury, disfigurement… any number of horrible fates, really.

"Smaug, once it was discovered who was actually behind the string of killings, was taken away and imprisoned, but many of the others went down with a fight and suffered greatly for it. I believe a few even died; regardless, Smaug was let out after some fifty years, believed to be powerless." Thranduil was silent for a moment, his eyes focused far away. "But that sign that Thorin showed me… those are of the same style. And that one, specifically, contains not only the symbols that came to be associated with imminent death, but below that—the antlers and leaves that are my personal crest, as a royal elf. An obvious choice, quite transparent really, they used to be harder to decode; nonetheless, the message is clear: he means to attack me. And, if possible, kill me."

The truth was resounding enough to echo within Bard's ribcage, and that alone would have scared him, but on top of that, there was a note of something else in Thranduil's voice. _Fear_. Thranduil was afraid, deathly so, and Bard didn't know what it was that led him to that conclusion, because for all intents and purposes, Thranduil's expression was as cool and collected as always. But there was… a tremor, for lack of better word, hanging onto him, and by now Bard knew him well enough to tell.

Thranduil was _afraid._

Bard searched for something to say, but nothing came to mind. After all, what _did_ one say in that sort of situation? Thranduil beat him to filling the silence, however.

"What I would like to know is… why. There has to be some reason…" Thranduil faded off, glaring through the window with enough venom that Bard was mildly surprised it wasn't breaking fully under his gaze.

"If you knew about Smaug…" Bard stopped, checking himself, unsure if he should go on, or if Thranduil was occupied with his thoughts. But the elf was peering at him curiously, seeming to calm down a little for the distraction, and so Bard continued. "If you knew what Smaug could do, why didn't you believe Thorin when he tried to tell you the first time? Or… if not believe, at least give him some consideration instead of dismissing him."

Thranduil looked a little bit sheepish, ducking his eyes down and away. "I didn't want it to be true," he answered.

Bard made a face. "You were kind of a dick, though, to be honest." Thranduil sighed.

"I know. I _will_ apologize…" _Truth_. "…even if he did come barging in with all the grace and manners of a wild oliphaunt…" Also truth, and Bard couldn't help his small smile.

"Hm. Regardless. Thank you for telling me."

Thranduil grunted.

"So, where are we going, anyways?" Bard asked, deciding it was high time to change the subject. For some reason, the question caused Thranduil to smirk.

"A place where Smaug will never think to look for me. Nor, for that matter, will anyone else."

"Ah-huh," Bard said, unimpressed. "And that place would be…?"

"Oh, just the Iron Hills."


	14. Dark Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you refer to someone as a dark horse you mean that they are secretive, or that little is known about them, so you don’t know how they will react or perform."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha... what do you mean it's been almost a year and a half... (i'm sorry... yuri on ice came for me and my life. i figure skate now.) anyways, i hope anyone who's still reading this will forgive me and take me for my word when i say this story _will_ be finished...! ~~i really should be sleeping now though~~

Bard stared at Thranduil for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Thranduil stared impassively back, however, Bard had to concede that maybe the words were as truthful as they sounded. Didn't mean he had to believe it easily, though.

"The—Iron Hills? Isn't that a… shady part of town?"

Thranduil snorted and gave him an unimpressed look. "And where do _you_ live, exactly?"

"I—well."

A few moments of silence followed that particular exchange, and Bard used the time to stare out the window as the high-rise buildings of central Dale flashed past. Their aircar was probably surpassing the speed limit by a solid few, if Bard were any judge.

"Okay," he said some seconds of contemplation later. "But who's in the Iron Hills anyways?"

"You'll see," Thranduil replied, completely truthful and annoyingly smug. Bard rolled his eyes.

"Oh, the suspense," he said, trying to convey with a glare just how suspenseful he wanted things. Thranduil shrugged, unaffected.

"I've been told it's a talent of mine."

Now it was Bard's turn to snort. "Did they caveat it with that being your _only_ talent?"

Thranduil gasped softly, bringing a hand to his sternum in mock horror. "Bard, gracious! Do tell me what you _really_ think, why don’t you?”

“I just did,” Bard quipped back, and the corners of Thranduil’s lips twitched.

“Such cruelty,” he said. The lie sat heavy in Bard’s stomach, but it was a bearable weight; said with a good intention, and all.

They bantered back and forth for a bit, eventually lapsing back into silence, and Bard began looking out the windows again. The high-rise buildings had long since faded into grungy, multi-story brick houses, and now even those shrank into one-story houses made from a mixture of wood and brick and stone. The bricks were red, the stones black, and the wood had an old, aged feel. The whole area looked rusted.

Bard turned to Thranduil.

“Are we there?”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Nearly.”

“Mm. I think I finally understand why it’s called the Iron Hills,” Bard said off-handedly.

“Interesting, considering there’s no iron to be seen,” Thranduil replied lightly. Bard shot him a flat gaze.

“It looks rusted.”

“If you say so,” Thranduil said. Just then, the car swooped down to ground-level and pulled to a halt in front of a nondescript house. “Ah, good, we’ve arrived.” Thranduil powered down the car, and then stepped out. Bard followed his lead, keeping himself half a step back as Thranduil walked up to the house’s door and rapped loudly. The door echoed—evidently built out of metal.

There were a few seconds of waiting, and then Bard heard oddly uneven footsteps, and finally, the door swung open.

“Well. Of all the buggers I was expecting to see here, you sure as Mahal’s dirty shoe weren’t one.”

Bard blinked a few times.

“Is that—”

“Dáin Ironfoot, aye,” the dwarf in question replied, giving Bard a once-over. Bard stared at him, then looked at Thranduil.

“But I thought you hated each other!”

“No, that’s just a public front. You know, for our companies. Most people have a mistaken idea about what both Greenwood and Urâd Zirnul do, so it’s… of mutual benefit to maintain an appearance of animosity.”

“Aye,” Dáin said, nodding along. “Pointy-eared princess though ye Lord here might be, but he’s of a decent sort,” he finished with a wink in Bard’s direction.

_A wink? What’s_ that _supposed to mean?_

“Yes, I do try sometimes,” Thranduil said dryly. “In any case, while Greenwood deals with jewelry and clothing, Urâd Zirnul deals mainly with mining—which, of course, goes counter to what one would expect Greenwood to support, being, after all, a green company. You’ll find that Dáin and his folk are quite the sustainable miners, though.”

“Ach, you flatter us. The technology’s there, someone’s gotta use it, no?”

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed. He gestured at the rusty houses around them while Dáin pulled out a phone and began tapping away. “These houses are a front. The land is mined, and what was extracted is replaced with houses for dwarves who wish to remain underground. Right, Dáin?”

Dáin looked up from his phone, clicking it into sleep and tucking it into his pocket. “Ah, yes, exactly. Now, I have my suspicions, but what can I be helpin’ you with today?”

“Smaug is after me. I need a safe house,” Thranduil said.

Dáin stared at Thranduil shrewdly for a second, and then closed his eyes and sighed with resignation. “Well then, I suppose you had better come in,” he said. Bard was relieved to hear the truth of his sentence.

Once inside, Dáin motioned them to follow him into a side room, where there were a few chairs set up, as well as a small coffee table. Dáin indicated that they should sit down, and Thranduil did so without complaint. Bard, naturally, followed suit.

“So,” Dáin said once they were all situated. “Tell me.”

“I assume you’ve heard about Thorin by now?”

“That his place got destroyed? Aye.”

“Well, that’s not all. In the rubble, there was a set of glyphs—I don’t have them with me, but I’m sure you would recognize them. My death was called for. Greenwood… has security measures in place, but they aren’t—they aren’t capable of withstanding Smaug.” _Partial truth._ “I need a place to lie low, at least until—you know, Smaug tends to act quickly. I can’t imagine it will be too much longer now until something happens. I’ve already sent all my workers home, I’ve locked down the building, I’ve had my personal house vacated—but I need somewhere to stay. And for Legolas, and Bard and his children.” There was a pause. “Please.”

Dáin sat back in his chair, looking vaguely disturbed and very pensive.

“What makes you think you’d be any safer here?” he asked.

“Please, Dáin, we both know your security is through the roof, and you’re one of the best battle-axe wielders of the century. Plus we hate each other; no one in their right minds would think to look for me here.”

Dáin thought for a bit longer, then sighed. “Right then, you can stay. I reserve the right to hold this against you in the future, though.”

Thranduil dipped his head gracefully, but Bard still caught his faint smile. “Duly noted. I am in your debt.”

Dáin waved his hand vaguely. “Let us have a peek around in the bedrock under that forest of yours, and we’ll consider it even.”

“I’ll consider it,” Thranduil replied, and Bard was surprised to find that it wasn’t even a lie.

“Now that that’s all settled, what do you say to some lunch? Thovae said she’s got some set up if you’re interested.”

“Well,” Thranduil said, following Dáin’s example and standing up, “I’ll never refuse Thovae’s hospitality.

 

Thovae, it turned out, was Dáin’s wife, her beard almost more impressive than his. Lunch was a simple affair of breads and cheeses and several types of mushroom garnish, but delicious nonetheless—the rounds of sincere compliments buoyed Bard’s spirit, even aside from the tastiness of the food itself.

Halfway through lunch, Dís showed up, ranting in honest Khuzdul for a few words before realizing who all was in the room. Thovae smiled warmly and welcomed her to the table, and the five of them finished up lunch together.

Bard insisted upon helping Dáin clean up afterwards, leaving Thranduil with the two dwarrowdams to continue whatever conversation they were having—at the moment, it sounded like something about the practicalities of a certain metal in use for jewelry, and whether or not aesthetic should outweigh function.

“You know,” Dáin said as he passed a plate to Bard for drying. Bard focused on making sure his head didn’t brush against the low ceiling. “He really is a good sort, Thranduil is.” Dáin said this with enough sincerity that Bard frowned, certain he was missing something. “He acts very hoity-toity all the time, but I’ve seen him get his hands dirty with the rest of them when the occasion called for it.”

“I’m… sure he thinks the same of you,” Bard replied, a touch hesitantly. Dáin shot him a look, confusion first, then calculation, and finally his eyes widened into understanding.

What, exactly, Dáin has understood, that was beyond Bard. Dáin patted his arm, with enough accidental force to throw Bard off balance and actually hit his head.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon, laddie,” Dáin said, smiling to himself.

“...okay.”

They finished cleaning the plates in silence, and when they returned to the other three, Dáin announced that he might as well show Thranduil and Bard the guest quarters in the underground portion of the Red Hills, so they’d be able to come and go as they pleased later.

Thovae and Dís excused themselves and left, Dís seemingly picking up her Khuzdul rant where she’d left off.

Dáin led Bard and Thranduil to a large door on the side of the corridor that led to the bathroom—the door itself was almost invisible, actually, and Bard wouldn’t have noticed it had Dáin not activated it.

“Real easy,” he said. “There’s a biometric scanner five centimeters from the right of the painting of Peaches—” Peaches, evidently, being a boar, “—and when you activate it, there’s the door,” Dáin said, as the door swung back to reveal a long, deep staircase, adorned on the sides by red-toned lanterns. “If you put your hands on the scanner now, it’ll remember you,” Dáin added.

Thranduil went first, and Bard saw the faint glow of his illusion flicker slightly; the scanner must be reliant on magic. Bard’s hunch was confirmed when he placed his own hand on the scanner, and felt the security magic flow over him with enough force to leave the tips of his fingers tingling slightly.

“Alright, now that that’s all settled an’ proper, we’ll get going, shall we?” Dáin said, clapping his hands and heading off down the stairs. His prosthetic reverberated dully with every step that he took, a stark contrast to Thranduil’s silent steps.

Bard was about to follow them when he was struck by a thought.

“Wait,” Bard said, staring down the dimly lit stairs. “My kids.”

“Bard,” Thranduil said, a foot already down on the next step. Bard recognized that tone. A few paces lower, Dáin exchanged a glance between the two of them.

Bard, though, shook his head. “It’s already almost time for school to let out.”

“Bard,” Thranduil said again. “Galion’s already getting Legolas, we can let him pick up—”

Bard shook his head even more emphatically. “I’m going.”

Thranduil stared at him, lips drawn into a thin line. Bard stared back. He wasn’t going to be cowed or swayed on this point, not even by Thranduil’s beautiful blue eyes—these were his _children_ , and he was going to go get them and keep them safe, whatever it took.

“He can take my car,” Dáin said suddenly. Both Bard and Thranduil turned to look at him. Dáin shrugged. “My car’s guaranteed got better security than yours,” he said simply; truthfully. “Plus, it probably wouldn’t stand out like pyrite in a treasure chest, like yours would.”

Thranduil’s expression didn’t waver, but Bard could tell from the way he huffed that he and Dáin had won this argument. “Very well. I can’t stop you. I hope you know that I disapprove, though,” he said; still, his words were neutral, and Bard knew that Thranduil would do the same for Legolas if he trusted Galion any less.

"If you wouldn't mind showing me to the car?" Bard asked Dáin.

Dáin nodded, and climbed the stairs again, leading Bard and Thranduil to a garage, this time. Inside was a worn-looking pick-up; Thranduil stepped forward and inspected it, though, and finally nodded approvingly. Bard took this to mean that its defenses were in good shape.

Dáin opened the garage doors and tossed a set of keys to Bard, who caught them in one hand. "Gas is full, it's a ground car only, though."

"Not a problem," Bard said, somewhat relieved that he wouldn't have to figure out an aircar on the proverbial fly. "Thank you, again," he added, hoping he could convey even a fraction of his gratitude as he opened the car door.

“Hurry back, understood?” Thranduil said, his hand hovering uneasily near his waist. His words were very truthful, but Bard was too preoccupied with thoughts of his children to really linger.

“Of course,” Bard replied, stepping into the car. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Good,” Thranduil said, nodding. "I’ll see to the rooms.” Then Thranduil spun around and walked back inside, and Bard spared one last wave for Dáin before firing up the engine and taking off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just pulled Thovae's name at random from a name generator i'm sorry//
> 
> also, special shout-out for [bereniceofdale,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale) who keeps me motivated and is honestly the only reason i finished this chap up when i did <33333 you're the best, friendo <3


	15. Eat Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you eat crow, you admit that you were wrong about something."_

It took Bard a moment to figure out how to get out of the Iron Hills—in his defence, it wasn’t a part of town that he visited often (ever, actually)—but once he found himself back on the freeway headed towards Dale, he felt a bit calmer.

His fingers still drummed impatiently on the steering wheel, though, and only his ingrained wariness of the police kept him from going over the speed limit. He turned off the freeway, jumping three lanes possibly a bit too quickly, and then was forced to slow as the stoplight turned red ahead of him.

As he stopped, the engine cut out—one of those newer model ground-cars, then—and silence descended all around Bard. He tapped his fingers against the wheel some more, glaring impatiently at the light and the dashboard clock in alternation.

Then Bard heard a scratching noise out his window, and looked over. Perched on the rearview mirror, peering intently at him as only birds could do, was a thrush.

“Hello, kind thrush,” Bard said softly. The thrush poofed all its feathers in surprise, and hopped around.

“You speak, you speak!” it said, flapping its wings excitedly. Bard smiled despite himself.

“Only since recently,” he answered as the thrush re-adjusted its wings against its back. It nodded solemnly.

“Ah, so that’s the light, the light about you.” Bard raised his eyebrows.

“A light, you say?”

“Yes, yes! You glow, glow like a thrush!”

“Huh,” Bard said. “Well that’s new.”

“Your name, what it is?” the thrush asked.

“Bard. And yours?”

The bird let out a complicated trill, which Bard could only assume to be its name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the opposing streetlight turn yellow, and he ducked his head at the thrush. “If you’ll pardon me, I do have to take off now…”

“Of course, of course!” Complicated-whistle said. “May the wind be on your tail!”

“You, too?” Bard said, but by that point, Complicated-whistle had already flown off. With a shrug, Bard kept on driving; he had to skirt a patch of construction at one point, but in the end, he made good time.

He pulled into his parking garage—after a bit of a heckle with the scanning machine, which ended with Bard angrily shoving a few bills at the parking meter—and slotted the Iron Hills car right where he would usually park the Barge. When he arrived at his floor, though, he froze the second he stepped out of the elevator.

There was a light shining on the landing floor—Bard’s door was open.

He frowned. The kids knew not to leave the door open.

Bard swallowed as he felt his heart rate begin to pick up. He forced himself to keep calm, keep his breathing even, and think. There was a possibility it was nothing, that there wasn't any danger at all, that Bard was just overreacting and someone had been forgetful—things happened, right?

But there was also the possibility that something _had_ happened. And if something had… the front door probably wasn't going to be the best place from which to enter.

Quietly, Bard backtracked, silently opening the door that led out onto the patio. From there he jumped over, onto the ledge that brought him over to Bain's room. He froze again as he heard voices coming from the living room—he could just make out Sigrid's voice, angered, and then a deep laugh that made his blood curdle.

Bard snuck into his own room, stringing his bow and pulling as many arrows as he could fit into his hand out of the quiver. Surprise, in this case, was more important than the number of shots—the arrows would just rattle in the quiver, no matter how silent Bard's footsteps would be, and if all the intruders could fit in his living room, then there couldn't be many, after all.

He gripped his spare arrows and his bow in one hand, and nocked an extra arrow. Then he padded out, down the hallway, hoping for all that he was worth that whatever was in his living room wasn't a dragon, because then arrows really would be useless.

When he reached the end, he took one more silent, deep breath, and then spun out, arrow at full draw as he took in the scene.

He barely had time to think before he fired, shooting directly into the forearm of an orc who was holding a knife too close to Tilda's chest for comfort.

"Da!" Tilda half-yelled, half-cried as the orc dropped the knife with a screech, clutching at his pierced and bleeding arm, and the other two orcs in the room turned to look at Bard, who already had a second arrow nocked and drawn. He tried to send Tilda a comforting glance.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," said the tallest of the orcs, completely ignoring his subordinate's whimpers, his pale blue eyes boring into Bard with a wicked grin. Bard hesitated, only not shooting because of the flash of fear in Sigrid's eyes. The orc was standing right behind her. There was a gun in his visible hand, the other being behind Sigrid—it didn't take long to piece two and two together.

Bard shifted his aim, to right between the orc's eyes.

"You shoot, I shoot," said the orc, the truth of it singing in Bard's stomach. "Or Bolg shoots," the orc added, tilting his head towards the third orc, who'd been standing to the side with a large pistol capped with a silencer.

"Who are you?" Bard all but growled, his arm beginning to tremble from the force of holding the bow at full draw. His eyes darted around, searching for Bain and fearing the worst, until he remembered Bain had soccer practice. Bard allowed himself to feel a small modicum of relief, then, before re-focusing on the white-skinned orc as he laughed.

"I am Azog," the orc said, and he smiled even more broadly, the scars on his face stretching gruesomely. He was saying the truth, but the name didn't mean anything to Bard. He wondered, vaguely, if he should be impressed by that or not.

"Why shouldn't I shoot you," Bard said, voice surprisingly level given how fast his heart was thumping. Bolg had a clawed hand wrapped around Tilda's shoulder, and she left out a slight whimper. "I could hit you before you could react enough to shoot."

Azog laughed. "What makes you think it would hurt us?" With the hand that wasn't busy threatening Sigrid, he shifted aside the collar of his coat, revealing a thick vest of what looked like Kevlar. He pressed a button on the edge of the vest, and a quick shimmer of light flew up in front of his face, like an electrical crackle.

Bard cursed internally, thinking fast. That was without doubt a magical shield, which would repel any of his depressingly non-magic arrows. But the shield didn't seem to extend much more than beyond Azog's face, and the bulky Kevlar vest was just that—a vest.

Bard switched his aim to Azog's arm.

"It's poison," Bard threatened, lying through his gritted teeth but hoping his expression seemed intimidating rather than pained. At that, Azog rolled his eyes, then shoved his second gun against Sigrid's head. Sigrid blanched, though anger still glittered in her gaze, and Bard did the same.

"Put down your bow, Bowman, or I shoot the girl."

He wasn't lying.

Bard released the tension on the bowstring, dropping both his bow to the ground. Its clatter sounded unnaturally loud in Bard's ears. His fist tightened around the arrows held in it.

"I'll do whatever you want, just let the kids go," Bard said. He thought he might have been speaking too loudly, but the blood was roaring in his ears, heart beating in his throat. Azog smiled, Bolg following suit. Their third lackey was in the corner, seemingly trying to cut out the arrow that was still in his arm.

"Really?" Azog said. "Excellent, then come with us."

Bard took a step forward, then stopped. "I want assurance. That you won't hurt them. And that you'll let them go free. And not bother them ever again."

This time, Bolg laughed. His voice was deeper and more gravelly, when he spoke. "Not stupid, this one."

Azog bared his teeth, though Bard couldn't decide whether it was a smile or a threat. "You're lucky we need you alive," he snarled, truthfully, eye flickering to Bard's arrows, "or else you wouldn't be getting your way."

"Assurance," Bard repeated. Then, on a hunch, he held the points of his arrows against his skin. Azog took a step forward, but Bard glared at him, and he stopped. They needed him alive, and they thought the arrows were still poisoned—Bard still had some leverage.

Bolg spit at him, and Tilda trembled in fear.

"Very well," said Azog, sneering. "I swear on the spirit of Morgoth that your kids will go free, unharmed." Bard felt the truth, but even more than that, he saw the wisp of dark magic that sealed the oath.

Bard dropped his arrows to the ground, and took another step forward, his palms held outwards in a gesture of surrender. Azog shoved Sigrid away, and she went without even a noise of surprise, but Bard could tell she was furious. She had always been one of those who went silent with anger, rather than blustered.

Tilda, meanwhile, had started to cry, her shoulders shaking as she watched Azog roughly fasten a rope around Bard's wrists, then jerk him away.

_"It'll be fine,"_ Bard mouthed, not saying the words aloud for fear of being overheard.

This was a lie, too.

By now Bolg and the other orc had already left, and Sigrid had made her way over to Tilda and was hugging her close as her tears grew ever noisier. Bard couldn't help but smile, in that moment—he had no doubt that if Tilda hadn't been there, Sigrid would have been more than capable of administering at least some type of serious injury.

Her expression certainly said she wished to.

Then a large hand planted itself square on Bard's back, shoving him roughly forward and almost causing him to fall.

“I’ll give you reason to smile enough,” Azog growled, blocking off Bard's view of his girls. For once, it was the truth of the statement that made Bard’s stomach curl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new year but at least it didn't take me a full one to update, this time! :') i just wanted to say that i really appreciate all of your comments, even though i haven't really replied--i generally keep them in my inbox so i have motivation to write ("there's people who COMMENTED, you could at least fucking write the next chapter", etc etc) but then by the time i always do get around to writing it's like? months later? so anyways. ~~i might go reply to a few now, actually...~~ THANK YOU, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU, I APPRECIATE IT MORE THAN I CAN SAY  <3


	16. Dog's Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"To describe something as a dog's breakfast means that it is a complete mess."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not proofread bc i'm tired so if u see any typos i'm sorry

The car ride back was awkward, to say the least. Bard has been unceremoniously shoved into the back of an aircar, then roughly blindfolded. For a while, he'd tried to pay as much attention to his surroundings as he could, listening intensely and trying to follow the dips and turns of the car as it flew, but after a while he realized it was a futile effort, and gave up.

He hoped Sigrid had had enough of her wits about her to call Thranduil, or at least to get herself out of the apartment—Peter was generally drunk, but he was kind to the kids, and even that would have been better than staying put. They'd have to warn Bain, too, and get him out as well, or get him to go straight to somewhere else from practice…

Bard's musings were eventually cut short, an indeterminate amount of time after his uncomfortable trip had started.

"So, Mr Bowman," said one of the orcs. Bard thought it was probably Azog. "We've heard interesting things about you." The way he said it fell flat, and Bard was overcome by a wave of dread.  "I've heard that you're a soothsayer."

 _Oh, fuck,_ Bard thought. That statement had rung true, and hopefully Azog wouldn't realize the effect that lies had on Bard on a physical level, because—

"I am a law-abiding citizen," Azog sneered, and Bard's stomach clenched tightly. Painfully. He must have shown something on his face, because Azog's sneer widened. "I never killed a man. Especially not in cold blood."

Bard sucked in a breath, biting his lip to keep from making any noise.

"What's going on?" said another voice, deeper and more gravelly. Bolg, Bard suspected.

"Hey, come up with a lie," Azog said. "My skin is red! Look, it really does hurt him!"

Bolg immediately joined in. The lies grew more ridiculous, more elaborate, and with no space to breathe or center himself between them, the pain Bard felt simply continued to intensify.

Just before he passed out, a single thought flitted across his mind.

 _This has_ got _to be the dumbest way of getting tortured._

 

When Bard came to, he was in a cell. He was no longer blindfolded; not that it appeared to matter much. The only light source was a miniscule window in a corner, and it looked to be dark outside. He tried to move, only to fall limp with a groan as everything hurt.

He gave himself a few minutes to lay there and ruminate on every single twinge in his aching muscles, then grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up and take stock of his situation.

Sitting up the second time didn't hurt nearly so much as it had the first, and as Bard's eyes adjusted to the dark gloom, he realized that he'd been wrong—he wasn't in a cell at all, just a creatively used cellar. There were solid wooden casks lining two of the walls, and the small window against the remaining wall must have been for ventilation. The ceiling was low enough that Bard could probably have reached the window standing, but definitely too small for him to fit through—he quickly discarded that particular escape plan.

The floor he was sitting on was compacted dirt, dry and dusty and too hard to bother trying to dig through. The one wall he could see was solid stone, and the barrels to either side of him seemed both solid and heavy, and with no weapons on him save his fists, Bard greatly doubted his ability to break them down in any form. The fourth 'wall' was a series of metal poles drilled into the ground and ceiling—spaced to close to slip through, with only a small door. Without a key, he wouldn't be able to leave that way, either.

There was also no food or water present. Bard smacked his lips a little as he realized that, feeling the dryness of his mouth as he tried to swallow. After a few more seconds of sitting up, he lowered himself back down.

It was no use trying to plot escape plans that he couldn't carry out, and he was tired and weak, and it was nighttime, anyways. He might as well use the time to rest up.

 

When Bard awoke again, it was to the clatter of the lock and rattle of the door. He blinked himself awake as fast as he could, his dry throat tingeing as he took a breath. It was lighter in the cell now—daytime outside, as far as Bard could tell—and now, sitting just inside the closing bars of the door was a jug.

Bard scrambled over, much to the laughter of whomever had left it there.

Inside was what looked like water—it briefly cross Bard's mind that it might have been drugged, but he was too thirsty to care, and gulped about half of it down in one go. He paused, regaining a few quick breaths, and then drank a little bit more, slower this time. He left a few mouthfuls in the bottom of the pitcher, a precaution for later.

The rest of the day was monotonous. At some point, a few orcs and some humans came in and lied until Bard threw up, but they left soon after, and Bard spent most of the day dozing. A few times, when he felt strong enough, he looked out the window, but light quickly faded and Bard was left back in darkness.

The next day, too, he was woken up by the door and a pitcher of warm water being shoved inside. He drank less greedily than the day before, but his stomach wouldn't stop growling. Bard sighed.

It was going to be a long, long day.

After what might have been two hours but also could have been two minutes, for all Bard knew, he heard a soft tapping noise. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but at the noise persisted, Bard realized it was coming from the window. He stood up and walked over, peering out curiously.

A small thrush, snail in beak, stared curiously back at him. It flicked its wings once, then seemed to decide Bard was no threat, and went back to tapping the snail against the wall.

"What are you doing?" Bard asked after watching for a moment.

The thrust almost dropped the snail in shock, flapping its wings wildly. Bard almost thought he'd missed his chance to ask the thrush for help, but it returned quickly.

"You speak! You speak!"

"Yes, that I do," Bard replied. The thrush reminded him of Complicated-Whistle.

"Why are you in the hole? Why?" the thrush asked, moving its wings agitatedly.

"I got caught," Bard said, wondering how much a thrush would be able to understand or remember.

"Caught? Get out!"

"I need help." This caused the thrush to pause, and it shifted its wings once more before turning its head and fixing one eye on Bard. It seemed to be seriously considering this, and Bard sent a quiet thought of gratitude in Lady Galadriel's general direction.

"I can help, I can! I'll get help!" The thrush made as if to fly off.

"Wait! Wait," Bard said, "Do you know…" he wracked his brain briefly, trying to think of who the thrush would possibly know who would also be able to speak to it. Or understand it. Or at least realize that it wasn't just an ordinary bird. "Do you know Lady Galadriel? The elf?" The thrush thought for a moment. "The, uh… the elf queen? The witch of the woods?"

"Oh, yes, yes! I know her! She is very kind."

Bard nodded along. "Yes, she is. Could you tell her Bard needs help?"

The bird twisted its head around, staring with the other eye now. "Bard?" it asked. "That's a silly name, silly!"

"I—thank you?"

The thrush nodded. "Pick a new one!" it said. "I will talk to the nice elf, you pick a new name!"

"…okay."

The thrush picked up its snail, rapped it against the wall one more time, and then took off. Bard watched it go for as long as he could, and then sat back down, wondering if trusting his hope of escape to a bird was actually a good strategy or not.

He didn't really have anything else to go on, though, so at the moment, he wasn't being picky.

 

Bard shot up to sitting as the door rattled again. The door never rattled, unless they were giving him water. It wasn’t morning, which was a change from the last two days, already—then he managed to pick out facial features of the person at the door, and his eyes widened in shock.

_"Bilbo?"_

Bilbo held a single finger to his lips. "Not so loud, I drugged their wine but I have no idea how quickly it'll act," he whispered, without even a hint of a lie.

Bard blinked, then frowned. "What?"

"I'm breaking you out!" The truth of it rang in Bard's stomach, and at that moment, it finally became clear to him what Bilbo was doing—he had a keyring, and was testing out all the keys into the lock on the door. "And don't fret, this isn't the first time I've done this. Ah, there we go." The door swung open, and Bilbo quickly entered. "Here, drink this," he said, offering a small bottle up to Bard, who took and drank, too bewildered and tired to do much else.

The change was immediate as soon as he'd swallowed the drink down—he felt his thirst and hunger evaporate, and even the last nagging pain from the lie-induced torture was gone. He stared at the empty bottle.

"Good, isn't it?" Bilbo said. "Remediating potion, house recipe. And some influence from Thranduil, because he can't leave anything well alone, that elf, but oh well, there you have it. Now then, follow me, quickly now, and mind your step—I thought I saw a contraption a bit further down this hallway… tell me, Bard, how do you feel about barrel-riding?"

"…am I supposed to have an opinion on barrel-riding?" Bilbo's chatter progressed rapidly and truthfully, and Bard was honestly having a little bit of whiplash.

"Hm, yes, well, I suppose not. You'll have one soon enough, though, go in here," he said, directing Bard into a side room at the end of the corridor. There were barrels stacked on all the walls, larger piles giving way to smaller ones, but in the middle of the floor was a large section of wooden slats accompanied by a lever. Bard fancied he could hear the sound of running water, too.

"What's all this?"

"Well," Bilbo said, approaching the barrels and standing on tiptoe to inspect them, "this here used to be quite the prolific wine trading post—they'd get shipments of full barrels up here by vehicle, and then send the empty barrels back to the winery via riverpower. Of course, it went out of business several decades ago, but I did some scouting outside before I came to get you, and all the machinery still looks to be in place."

Bard frowned as Bilbo flicked some rather large spiders out of one of the barrels. "Wait, are you saying we have to—"

"Jump out of here on barrels and swim a bit? Yes, that would be the implication. I trust you can swim, right? My carpet's parked a little ways downstream—"

"…I can swim."

"Excellent! In any case, don't fret, don't fret, we'll get you out of here lickety-split. Done this once or twice in my time, I can promise you that."

Bard didn't really have an answer to the truth of that statement, so he settled himself for waiting while Bilbo finished cleaning out one barrel and started on the next. After a few more spiders—all of which Bilbo shooed away—the barrels were apparently deemed clean enough, and Bilbo turned back to Bard.

"Would you mind quite helping me move these? We need to get them onto those boards there, but I'm afraid that they're probably just about equal to my size, and well—Thorin would say I just need a bit more time in the forge, but I would much rather spend the time reading a good book or three, you know? Point is, I highly doubt I could lift these, if you'd be so kind?"

Feeling restored as he was, Bard easily lifted the empty barrels and deposited them as quietly as he could onto the boards next to the lever in the middle of the room, noting as he did so that the wood dipped slightly underfoot.

"Much obliged, thank you," Bilbo said. "Now hold on tight, that's it." Bilbo put one hand on a barrel, and used the other to push the lever.

Bard didn't even have time to shout in alarm as the floor tipped out from under him and he fell at least two or three meters into freezing water that punched the breath clear out of him. For a second he was frozen before he remembered to move, and then he emerged, flailing, onto the surface of the water, gasping for breath.

He blinked water out of his eyes, and as he was doing so, his hand hit—Bard grabbed onto the barrel, kicking to heave himself up so he could hold on properly. He shook his head and blinked some more, and finally was able to look around. Bilbo, who had somehow managed to fit himself _into_ his barrel, waved at him.

With a smile that probably looked a lot more like a grimace, Bard waves back as best he could without letting go of his barrel.

"Just a bit further!" Bilbo said. "The carpet's on the left, so if you can get yourself over there it'll be easier." Bard nodded weakly and kicked a bit, moving himself closer to Bilbo even while letting the current do most of the work for him.

Finally, they rounded a bend and almost crashed into a sandbar—apparently, this was by design, as Bilbo hopped out of his barrel and scrambled his way to shore proper, leaving his barrel to keep floating. Bard followed suit, feeling some exhaustion begin to creep back into his bones now that he was out of the freezing water and could actually feel his toes again. Or what was left of his toes.

Bilbo, for his part, was rummaging behind a bush, and pulled out a rolled-up carpet. With a well-practiced flick, he unrolled it, and the carpet remained hovering a few centimeters above the ground.

"Come along, get on—I apologize for not having a spare set of clothes for you, but I can turn the heat on," Bilbo said, already sitting cross-legged, heedless of the water dripping off of him, and tracing various patterns woven into the carpet.

"That would be very kind of you," Bard acknowledged, cautiously stepping up onto the carpet. As soon as he was on, the familiar tingle of magic spread over his skin and he felt instantly warmer.

"Alright, sit tight, this model doesn't come with seatbelts—you don't fall off, no worries there, but you might get a bit jostled. Are you ready?" Bard nodded. "Wonderful. Onwards, then!" With a flourish, Bilbo traced a swirl, and the flying carpet shot off into the sky. Even forewarned as he was, Bard nearly tipped over backwards, managing to regain his balance at the last second.

At first, the trip was silent—Bard lost himself in the blurring trees flashing past, and as the last of the sun's rays began to disappear, he watched the clouds burn gold. Eventually, though, it became almost too dark to see anything beyond the carpet, and Bard turned to Bilbo.

"How many days was I gone?"

"Four," Bilbo answered, an inscrutable look on his face and a note of sad truth in his voice. Bard winced. So he'd been passed out for at least two, then.

"And my kids?"

"They're safe," Bilbo replied. He spoke truth, and Bard let go of a bit of tension he hadn't even realized he was holding. "With Thranduil at Dáin's. He went and got them himself when you didn't show back up."

Bard managed a smile at that. "That's good. They're okay?"

Bilbo nodded. "Tilda seemed a bit shaken, but Sigrid was mostly angry. She demanded Thranduil go look for you immediately. Quite a sight, I tell you."

"Aye, she's a firecracker. Takes after her mother like that."

"You should be proud of all of them," Bilbo said.

"I am. And happy they're safe. Thank you. For telling me, and for breaking me out."

Bilbo waved a hand. "Nothing to thank me for. Galadriel reached out to Thranduil that she knew about your whereabouts, and I offered to come get you, since he'd be too conspicuous. No one deserves to be held like that." Bard snorted slightly at the thought of Thranduil ever _not_ being conspicuous, and Bilbo was silent for a moment before continuing. "Would you mind terribly if I asked about what, exactly, happened? Thranduil was awfully tight-lipped, and you seem to have seen better days. If you don't mind, of course…"

Bard regarding him for a moment. "Swear to me that you won't speak of this to anyone."

Bilbo frowned, but nonetheless said, "You have my word, I swear by the hairy feet of my great-great-grandfather Balbo, I shan't speak of this." Bard nodded slowly a few times, taking in the clear honesty of the oath.

"I think they wanted me to get to Thranduil, as… a hostage, maybe. I don't know. But—somehow they found out I'm a soothsayer." Bilbo sucked in a breath as Bard said it, eyes widening. "Somehow they knew, and they used it against me. Lying, it—it hurts, would be the best way to explain it. That's how I can tell—hearing truth feels clear, like… like clean water. But lies are like when you get food poisoning. And… they knew that, somehow."

"I'm so sorry," Bilbo said. Bard shrugged.

"You got me out. But. That's why I'm… not at my best. I think whatever you gave me is starting to wear off, huh?"

Bilbo nodded. "Most likely. Especially if the damage beforehand was large… well, there's only so much even a magically enhanced remedy can do. Go ahead and rest, if you can—I know this isn't the largest carpet, but if you can manage to get comfortable… There's still about an hour of our flight left."

"Thanks," Bard said, suddenly tired. He hunkered down as best he could on the carpet, somehow managing to keep all of himself except his toes still on it. Even curled up as he was, it was still more comfortable than the floor he'd spent the last few days on. He soon settled into an uneasy sleep.

 

The dip of the carpet as it descended woke Bard up, and he struggled into sitting while Bilbo steered the carpet into landing lightly on the sidewalk in front of a familiar rust-red door. They both got off—Bard's clothes were mostly dry by now, and he stretched a bit, working out a few kinks in his muscles and neck. Bilbo rolled up the carpet, setting it down near the walls of the house before walking over to the door and waiting.

Bard paused before coming closer to the door. Bilbo noticed, and though his hand rested on the doorknob, he didn't turn it.

"I just… need a moment," Bard said. Bilbo nodded, stuffing his hand back into one of the pockets on his waistcoat.

"I understand," he said, the gentle truth washing over Bard like a balm. "Take your time."

"Thanks," Bard managed to croak out, before slumping to the ground. He pulled his knees up to his chest, looping his arms over the top to provide himself a cushion, and then buried his face into it. Distantly, he could feel himself starting to breathe harder and faster, his world narrowing to the space encircled by his body, but after a while, Bard was able to force his breath into a regular pattern.

Soon after his breathing calmed, so did his thoughts, and Bard finally felt put-together enough to carry on. He probably looked like a mess, with his eyes red from the few tears he was now wiping away and the exertion of a panic attack. He made sure his eyes were fully dry before looking at Bilbo.

"Okay," he said, getting up and brushing off his dusty pants."I'm ready."

"Onwards, then," Bilbo said, and opened the door.


End file.
